


Regular Like Seasons

by s0ymilk



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Purple Hawke, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0ymilk/pseuds/s0ymilk
Summary: When a white-haired elf covered in blood is brought to the Kirkwall City Guard Station and refuses to talk, Captain Aveline Vallen calls the best person for the job: Kirkwall's infamous criminal Garrett Hawke. Hawke gets the elf to talk, but what he learns about Fenris puts them right in the crosshairs of an angry Magister who is intent on seeing his property returned to him. Luckily, Hawke's got some tricks up his sleeve.





	Regular Like Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooooo Dragon Age II fandom! I'm excited to be here :D 
> 
> Shout-out to Kaerwrites, who became my Fenhawke inspiration after I followed them on Tumblr and got ALL THE THINGS(and who also writes such excellent fics?!), and FoxNonny, whose fic 'Heart Says Go' is love and inspiration. Title is from 'Ghost' by the Indigo Girls.

It was a sunny spring day when Garrett Hawke stepped out into the street, slipping his sunglasses onto his face to protect from the glare of the late afternoon sun. The air was slightly chillier than normal; passersby were hunched down into jackets and furiously wrapping scarves around their exposed necks to ward off the chill. Hawke, clad in dark jeans and a worn leather jacket, simply stuck one hand into his pocket and used the other to fish out his cell phone.

“Hey.” he said into the phone as he strolled down the street. A man standing on the sidewalk with a copy of the _Kirkwall Dispatch_ scrambled out of the way. Hawke caught the headline on the front page - ‘Champion of Kirkwall Strikes Again!’ - before the man stepped too far away. “Sorry I missed your call, Beth, I - _no,_ I wasn’t avoiding you, I was _busy_ with _work.”_

The man listened as he walked, a slight crease between his eyebrows. Tall and broad-shouldered, it was easy for him to pick his way down the street; people parted for him  almost automatically without even the slightest glance on his part. They, in return, studied the confident tilt of his head, the worn-but-expensive black loafers on his feet, and the slash of red that decorated his nose, and determined that bumping shoulders with him was an activity best left to another day.

If one were to ask about Garrett Hawke, one might hear whispers that Garrett Hawke moved in very specific circles. The kind of circles that conducted their business in the back rooms of bars and on moonless nights in nondescript warehouses. Officially, Garrett Hawke didn’t have much gravity to his name; unofficially, one might know that he moved between the upper echelons of Kirkwall society and the dirty gangs that roamed Darktown’s streets with equal amounts of ease. What exactly it was that Garrett Hawke did was up for debate; that information was known only to Hawke himself and the crime lords he kept company with.

Of course, knowing too much about Garrett Hawke wasn’t good for one’s health. Maybe this had something to do with the reason that people stepped more quickly when they caught sight of him.

“I hadn’t forgotten about coming to visit, no.” Hawke said into the phone. “As if you would let me.”

A rumor had gone around last year that the dead man found missing all his finger- and toenails in a house in Lowtown was Hawke’s work. Others said he preferred to take the whole finger or even the hand; one man had frequented several pubs, waving his mutilated hand about and calling it Hawke’s work, before vanishing without a trace.

“Once I find a good stopping point, I’ll schedule something. Yes, I’ll call Varric about it. ... _No,_ you don’t need to call him yourself, though I know you will anyway. Mm-hmm. Love you too, sis.”

The man brought the phone down from his ear and gave it a look that was both irritated and fond. He moved to slip it back into his pocket, but paused at the feel of it vibrating and swiped at something on the screen instead. Frowning, the man pressed a few buttons and brought it back up to his ear.

“Aveline.” he said in greeting. “Urgent, is it? I’ll be there in fifteen.”

\--

Captain Aveline Vallen, of the Kirkwall City Guard, was an imposing woman by all accounts. Her high cheekbones and red swathe of hair did little to detract from the broad set of her jaw or her level, confident gaze. Turning that gaze on friend and foe alike had been an important part of getting her to where she was today, and it never failed to scare a guardsmen into line when she caught them horsing around on duty.

Which is why it was particularly infuriating to her that Garrett Hawke swept into her office and slouched into the chair in front of her desk like a common thug, his mouth turned up into an easy grin.

“Hawke. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” she said, instead of giving in to her irritation. It would be about as useful as trying to put lipstick on a Nug, in her experience.

“I was in the area. Good food trucks on your street.” Hawke said flippantly. “Now what’s on your mind?”

The reminder was enough to force a short sigh from Aveline. Hawke, understanding what it took to get such a reaction from her, immediately straightened his posture and leaned forward. He had known Aveline long enough to understand when she was dealing with something serious.

“I have a situation that your...skills… might help with. To be honest, the Guard has tried everything we can think of, and nothing’s worked. I’m hoping you can fix that.” she said, uncharacteristically vaguely. Hawke’s steady gaze stayed on her. He didn’t interrupt. In most situations, she would appreciate that. She stamped down on a niggling wish to avoid the whole subject and trucked forward.

“Last night, a couple of guardsmen in Darktown picked up a man covered in blood. It wasn’t his, and he won’t say anything about where it came from. He knocked out the two guards that tried to apprehend him, but the backup caught him anyway. He’s here in an interrogation room.”

“Who is he?” Hawke prompted. Aveline shook her head shortly.

“We don’t know. He won’t speak, and has no identification. Fingerprints don’t pull anything up. No facial matches to anything in our system. One guard said that he sounded like he might have a foreign accent, but he hasn’t said a word since he was brought in, so we don’t know.”

Hawke didn’t move, but Aveline could see the interest glint in his eyes. She’d known him for three years now; if there was anything that could be said about Hawke, it was that he was a curious man, and he was dedicated to things that interested him. Between that and a few of his other traits, he’d been the first name on her mind when she considered how to handle this situation. If anybody could help, it was Hawke.

“Are you asking me to play good cop or bad cop?” he asked with a smile. “Because let me tell you, Varric has been driving me over the edge lately and I wouldn’t mind taking out some frustration right now.”

“ _Hawke.”_ Aveline said sharply. His smile didn’t flicker; he enjoyed riling her, and she never failed to rise to the bait even when she knew he didn’t mean it.

“I understand, Aveline. I’ll find a way to loosen those lips, I promise. Wanna make a bet on how long it’ll take me?”

Aveline ignored him and stood from her seat. Hawke followed obediently as she left her office and strode down the hallways towards the interrogation rooms.

A few months after Aveline’s promotion to Captain, there had been some rumblings of discontent about her ties to somebody like Garrett Hawke. Not that Kirkwall was by any means a clean city, and not that the City Guard had any reputation of being honest itself, but some people took particular offense to the way Hawke strolled through the Guard Station hallways like he owned the place.

Then Hawke was seen accompanying Aveline as she brought in a drug lord that had been supplying deathroot powder to schools. The guard was mollified that Hawke had been involved in taking him down; the underworld rejoiced in the removal of a monopoly on the drug market. Everyone was happy, and nobody further questioned Aveline’s ties to the criminal underground.

The guard on duty, Donnic Hendyr, turned and snapped Aveline a short salute from in front of the one way mirror. Aveline could feel her cheeks heating slightly as Hawke’s knowing gaze darted from her to the guardsman.

“Donnic.” she said, as calmly as she could. “Any changes?”

Donnic shrugged. “He hasn’t said a word. Been sitting there since we brought him in this morning.”

“Didn’t you say he knocked out two of your guards when they brought him in?” Hawke cut in, voice incredulous. “ _That_ knocked out two guards?”

Aveline turned to look through the glass at the figure inside. The man was seated at the table, his hands cuffed behind him. They’d considered that a good precaution for the amount of violence he’d shown while being apprehended, but the figure inside that room didn’t look dangerous at all. His thin frame was slumped over the table, gaze pointed down at the smudged steel of the tabletop. Aveline couldn’t see his face, but there was no anger in the slant of his shoulders. The only even vaguely threatening thing about him were the thin white tattoos that were visible on his neck.

“I wasn’t here when they brought him in, but they said he was like a demon.” Aveline said softly, eyes still on the figure. The man had strangely pale hair that fell in soft strands around his face. “It took four of them to surround him and take him down, and they suspected he was holding back from killing anyone. If he hadn’t been, he might not be here. And I might be down four more guards.”

If she had been talking to anybody else, she would have warned them not to be fooled by appearances. But she didn’t need to do that with Hawke. She knew that he, more than anybody else, would know exactly how much care needed to be taken with the gaunt man in the room. And Hawke was already studying him intensely, one hand rested unthinkingly against the glass of the one-way mirror.

“Do you want Donnic to go in with you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Hawke smiled, eyes still on his new adversary, and shook his head slightly.

“I’m sure you have lots of interesting topics to discuss with each other.” the look he gave her then was pointed. He _still_ wasn’t over his meeting with Donnic at the Hanged Man then, and Aveline’s failure to show up. Possibly because Donnic was at this very moment pretending he didn’t exist in a rather disgruntled manner. She did feel guilty about that.

“We’ll be here if you need us. Discussing.” Aveline promised reluctantly. Hawke’s eyebrows raised, and then he gave her a short salute and grasped the handle to the interrogation room door.

“If I die today, tell Varric I hate him.” Hawke said cheerfully. “He still owes me three sovereigns from our last game of Wicked Grace, the bastard.”

And with that, he was gone. Aveline and Donnic settled in at the glass to observe him. Aveline contemplated the slight heat of Donnic’s forearm near her own, and the scent of aftershave drifting from him, and sighed imperceptibly.

“...nice weather out today.” she said awkwardly.

\---

Hawke noticed several things as he entered the interrogation room that his brain marked as ‘interesting’.

Observation the first: that the thin man seated and cuffed in the chair across the table was, in fact, an elf. The tips of his pointed ears could just barely be seen under his silvery hair. There had been a chance that he was just a particularly skinny human, but even if the ears hadn’t been visible, the fine features of his face would have given away his race. It mattered to Hawke, not necessarily because he cared one way or another about his race (unlike a large majority of people in the Free Marches), but because it told him something about the man in the room. The majority of elves in Kirkwall resided in a tiny, cramped space in the slums of the city that other residents referred to charitably as ‘Rabbit-town’. Those that had risen above that type of squalor attempted to band together in other neighborhoods, mostly unsuccessfully. Even after several hundred years of integration, Thedas was not very kind to elves.

Observation the second was that the minute he stepped into the room, something inside _tugged_ on him, not on his physical body but on the wellspring of power that was sunk into the center of his chest. Hawke explored it cautiously, but couldn’t determine the cause. Whatever it was, it wanted to anchor to his power, to add to it, and Hawke wasn’t willing to make that kind of connection without first knowing what exactly he was connecting to. Maybe the elf was a mage, but it didn’t feel like his usual interactions with other mages did.

Observation the third, and probably the most interesting, was that the elf had not moved an inch since Hawke entered the room. His gaze stayed pointed firmly down at the table; his shoulders remained slumped forwards (as far as they could be with his hands cuffed behind him); and not a single inch of him appeared as if he’d even noticed Hawke’s entrance, let alone planned to acknowledge it. Hawke wasn’t used to people treating him like he didn’t exist, and he certainly didn’t think it was normal for a person in this elf’s position to be this docile. Something was going on here.

The elf was dressed in the khaki jumpsuit issued to inmates at the Kirkwall City Jail, where he’d likely stayed the night. The city jail mandated that all guests shower and delouse before being housed, which meant that any evidence of why he’d been picked up covered in blood was now gone. Hawke would have to talk to Aveline to find out what they’d gathered on that front. He did notice as well that the elf was wearing the jumpsuit, but no shoes; they were placed neatly on the side of the table near the left table leg, leaving the elf’s feet bare. Interesting.

“Hello.” he ventured, taking a step towards the table. No reaction. Hawke ventured a step further, then slouched down into the chair opposite the elf noisily. Still no reaction. The elf’s face was covered by his shock of bright hair, leaving no way for Hawke to see his expression.

“Well, you’re a chatty one. It’s nice to finally have a conversation partner that can meet my level. Most of the guards in this place turn tail at the mention of a two syllable word.” Nothing. “Would you like to chat about why you’re here? What your name is? The results of changes to economic policy in the Free Marches?” Zilch.

Damn, no wonder Aveline had called him. Hawke drew in a breath, then stood up and made his way around the table.

 _There._ A barely perceptible shift of movement, just a whisper. The elf had moved _away_ from Hawke; defensive, not offensive like he’d have expected from Aveline’s report. Interesting. The elf made no other movement, not even when Hawke leaned in close to glance at his face. His white tattoos snaked up from under the collar of his jumpsuit, branching at the neck, and ended at the rim of his lower lip.

Think, Hawke. The elf had been sitting here since early morning and hadn’t said a word. What would…?

Early morning. Hawke eyed the elf’s slumped shoulders intently. He had been on that side of the table multiple times, and he wasn’t particularly chatty either when his arms felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. Nice cop, then, might get him some answers.

A casual fumble in the pocket of his leather jacket produced a keyring; Hawke could practically hear Aveline cursing under her breathe as she patted herself for the keys she had been missing since Hawke filched them from her pants pocket. She wouldn’t come in though, not unless she really felt she had to. Aveline didn’t always agree with Hawke’s methods, but she respected that they would work.

Picking out the key to the cuffs, Hawke carefully inserted it into the keyhole and turned. The tension in the cuffs immediately released; the elf slumped forward even further as the strain on his shoulders from having his arms pulled behind his back released. His relieved sigh was audible.

Hawke was already back several steps and out of reach before the elf grabbed for him, but it was a much nearer miss than he had been anticipating. The tips of his fingers missed Hawke’s jacket by only a few inches; he was _fast_. The cuffs around the elf’s ankles banged noisily against their holder set into the floor, but the elf himself didn’t stumble in his lunge, just retreated a step and sneered at Hawke. Trying not to look rattled by his totally unexpected near-capture, Hawke crossed back to the opposite side of the table and dropped back into his chair.

“Well, that certainly got a reaction.” he said easily, smiling at the still-standing elf. “I was starting to think you might be dead. Wouldn’t _that_ be a mess for the City Guard to deal with?”

“What do you want?” the elf demanded. His voice, raspy from disuse, was deeper than expected, and surprisingly lyrical. Hawke could hear the accent on his words, but couldn’t identify it right away; he’d have to get him talking, and then maybe he or somebody else would be able to place it.

“I think what I want is perfectly clear. You were picked up by the City Guard covered in enough blood to paint a house. Obviously, what I _want_ is to know whose blood it is, and why it was on _you_ instead of inside their body.”

The elf was taller than he looked at first glance, probably because he now stood tall and straight, rather than hunched over. Standing, Hawke could see more of the strange white tattoos that curved up his neck and ran to the bottom of his lip. The other end disappeared under his clothing, as did the streaks on his hands. Hawke wondered absently whether they connected in the middle, and then further wondered if they went… anywhere else.

Unkind of Aveline to force him to interrogate such a handsome criminal. Maybe he’d magically turn out to be innocent, have an entirely good reason to have been covered in blood, and Hawke could ask him out for a drink later. Right.

“And I would prefer you return me to my cell and let me rot there.” the elf replied, a sneer on his face. “It seems neither of us will get what we want.”

Hawke sat forward and settled his elbows on the table, resting his head atop his clasped hands. The elf’s posture under Hawke’s scrutiny became even more aggressive, if possible; his brows furrowed even further down and both hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides. It was impressive, his transformation from a meek prisoner to this angry figure standing in front of Hawke. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might not have believed a single person could look so differently. It didn’t seem that mere discomfort from the pair of cuffs could have caused it, either; something about the situation begged for more inspection.

“Listen,” Hawke said slowly, taking care with each word that he chose, “the Kirkwall City Guard is here to serve and protect. But until you give us some information, we can’t help you. Just give us your name. That’s not too much, is it?”

Hawke was prepared for a lot of things, but the he wasn’t prepared for the load of spittle lobbed in his direction. Frowning, he wiped the glob of saliva off his cheek with his hand and then onto his jeans before looking back at his conversational partner.

“You have good aim. Have you practiced that a lot, or are you naturally talented at projecting bodily fluids onto people?”

The elf sank into the chair and said nothing. Clearly, he was as done with this conversation as Hawke was.

“Well then, this has been informative. Sorry to dash, but I’ve got things to do. Wave if you change your mind about saving your own life.”

The elf looked away as Hawke rose from the table and walked back to the doorway. His eyes never flickered back, but Hawke could see the way his shoulders squared to him as he pushed the door open, keeping himself open and ready until the threat was completely gone. Then the door was shut, and Hawke was back on the other side with Donnic and Aveline.

Whatever type of flirting Aveline had attempted and failed at in his absence, all traces of it were gone now. She and Donnic both looked at Hawke steadily, matching puzzled frowns on their faces. Hawke jammed his hands in his pockets and gave them a small smile, which neither returned.

“Well,” Aveline said with a sigh, “You got him to talk, at least. That’s more than anybody else has gotten, though it’s not much.”

Hawke rolled his eyes and clapped her on the shoulder. “We have much more than that, my friend. But tell me - can I bring in a subject matter expert? Just to confirm some suspicions I have.”

\--

“It’s possible. Very possible, I’d say.”

Hawke couldn’t tell whether the best part of having Isabela in the station was listening to her work, or watching the guards attempt not to gawk at her. She’d already sent one scurrying towards the bathroom with his hand clamped over his red face just by wiggling her tongue at him. Another had stared at her half-covered ass for several minutes before realizing the glare Aveline was giving her and hurrying off. It was a sight to behold.

“What’s possible, exactly?” Aveline asked, leaning against the glass of the two-way mirror. Isabela kept her eyes on the elf inside as Donnic interrogated him, a look of concentration on her face. Her normally smiling mouth was twisted into a frown.

“Possible that you have a human trafficking victim in your custody. Look.” All three of them turned to the window, where Donnic was in the middle of asking a question. The elf had his hands cuffed in front of him this time; his head was bent, but not as much as before, and he was eyeing the guardsman with a look of pure, bitter hatred. As they watched, Donnic stepped closer to the cuffed man. The elf shied away reflexively, before returning to his defensive stance.

“He flinches reflexively when approached. He has no identifying documents with him. He’s covered in scars. And most importantly, he’s an elf with a Tevinter accent. He’s practically your poster child for human trafficking.”

The three of them paused to mull that over silently. It was a sobering thought. Tevinter had outlawed slavery decades ago, as had every other country in Thedas, but its practice of the illegal trade was an ill-kept secret. Anyone you wanted could be bought in Minrathous for the right price. There’d been a story in the paper just recently about a raid on a child slavery ring that had been operating across the Tevinter border. A Magister from Tevinter had been implicated in it. The thought was sickening.

“That does answer some questions, then.” Aveline said thoughtfully. “Namely, why we can’t find any records on him. A former slave would have none to look up. But it raises others. Why is he here in Kirkwall? And who brought him here?”

No one had an answer. They looked on as Donnic asked another question, and received no answer in return. The way the guard rubbed at his eyes said much about how stubborn the elf was.

Hawke was considering going in to try again when when another guardsman came jogging down the hallway, right up to Aveline. The guardsmen looked disheveled, and a line of sweat covered her forward, as if she’d been running.

“Captain,” she said breathlessly, “they found a body. In Lowtown. It’s a woman from Tevinter. A Magister’s apprentice.”

“Well. Shit.” said Hawke.

Aveline didn’t spare him a glance, just pulled the door to the interrogation room open quickly and gestured wordlessly to Donnic. Donnic must have realized the urgency on her face, because he cut off mid-sentence and turned to follow her out.

“Stay here. And out of trouble.” Aveline said to Hawke, with a firm jab at his shoulder. She didn’t look much mollified by the wink he gave her, but left nonetheless. Then it was just Hawke and Isabela at the mirror, alone.

“A Magister’s apprentice, huh?” Isabela mused. “Somebody’s gotten himself into a lot of hot water. You know it was probably self-defense, right?”

Hawke nodded, then sighed. “Doesn’t matter if he won’t talk. If they match the victim’s blood to the blood found on him, and he doesn’t give a good reason, they’ll get him for murder either  way.”

Isabela rolled her eyes and shoved him on the shoulder. “So get in there and butter him up, cupcake. If _you_ can’t do it, he’s hopeless.”

Hawke made a sour face back at her, but complied and yanked the door to the interrogation room open. The elf didn’t move, but his eyes did flick over to Hawke.

“So,” Hawke said conversationally, as he slumped into the chair in front of the elf, “You’re from Tevinter.”

A flinch. Hole in one on that. Should he keep pushing?

“And you murdered a Magister’s apprentice in Darktown. That’s ballsy, especially the part where you decided to get caught afterwards. This isn’t looking good, elf. You need to come clean.”

“And that will save me, will it?” Kirkwall must be far more forgiving than the stories make it out to be.”

The elf’s voice was low and scornful. Despite the words, Hawke could see from the fine trembling in his body that he wasn’t as in control as he wanted to appear. Hawke didn’t blame him; if he’d been in this position, he’d be shaking in his boots too. Not that the elf was wearing boots; his shoes were again stacked neatly alongside the table, as they had been the day before.

“Let me explain it to you this way.” Hawke said gently, as gently as he could find it in himself to be. “Once they connect that body to you, this becomes a murder case. And that’s enough evidence to put you away for a long, long time. And maybe this sounds ridiculous to you, because we don’t know each other, but something tells me you had a good reason for doing what you did. A reason that would count as self-defense, and allow you to walk free.”

He was playing the rest of his knowledge close to the chest, but the words were deliberate. Hawke saw the shift in the elf’s body at the word ‘free’. He saw the way the elf’s gaze flickered away, and how he swallowed reflexively, shaking the smooth white lines on either side of his throat. That’s all it took to shake the elf, that one word.

They sat in silence for a minute. When he realized no answer was forthcoming, Hawke sighed internally and fumbled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Mind if I smoke?” the elf looked at him impassively. Well. Hawke shook one cigarette out, briefly considered how angry Aveline was going to get over this, and brought the cigarette to his lips. Then he lifted his fingers, drew out a sliver of the Fade shifting around inside him, and held his white-hot fingers up to the tip of the cigarette.

Everything went wrong in a flash. Hawke found himself lifted bodily from his seat and slammed against the far wall, a thin but impossibly strong body pushed into his, an arm pressed against his chest. And then, something in his throat _shifted_ and squeezed, and Hawke coughed wetly and found himself unable to speak.

As the lack of air sent panic racing through his body, the cool ball of energy inside of his chest, his wellspring of magic, tightened into itself and shriveled. Hawke grasped for it in desperation, hoping to push the elf off of him with a burst of magic, but he might as well have been tranquil; all he was able to grasp of his normally deep pool of mana was a single thin thread, not even enough to create a puff of air.

“ _Mage.”_ the elf sneered at him. The bottom of his face was lit by a blinding white light that played over the rough craters of his skin, shining up from the white tattoos that lined his chin and neck. Hawke moved to shove the elf away, but whatever was in his throat tightened again, cutting off his air supply. Hawke’s vision wavered and grew dim; to the side of him, he heard something crash and a shout, but he had neither the ability nor the motivation to look for it.

His vision went black just as the endless pressure on his throat eased; it didn’t stop him crashing to the ground, nor did it keep blackness from swimming over him and dragging him down into its depths.

\--

Let it be known that Varric Tethras was a good friend. Varric was, in fact, the _epitome_ of the best friend a man can have, which was why when he got a call at 2 PM, right in the middle of his work day, he dropped everything he was in the middle of and booked it over to the guard station. I wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned to pick up Garrett Hawke from impending incarceration, and it wouldn’t be the last, he was sure.

Some people would call Varric Tethras a criminal, and they would only be half-wrong. But Varric thought it was short-sighted to slap such a harsh label on a clear opportunist. If he saw the silver lining where other people saw, what was it, the _law,_ what was wrong with that? It was _business,_ and business was something that Varric excelled at.

The rumor mill that circled around Varric Tethras was lurid and dizzying. Some said he made his fortune uncovering and selling illegal artifacts from historical sites all over Thedas. Others said it was his close ties to the Champion of Kirkwall that kept him so well-heeled. The truth was, at any one particular time Varric had his ring-encrusted fingers dipped into a dozen pots, and the amount of hats he wore was dizzying. That’s what made this little break from routine such a damned inconvenience. But Varric was also a smart man who knew the value of a good connection, and so when Garrett Hawke and his family had stumbled into town several years ago and started making a name for themselves, Varric was quick to make his acquaintance. If it had, over the years,  turned into something a little deeper and stronger than just an occasional meeting of the minds, well. Give Varric enough cheap liquor, and he might admit to you that Garrett Hawke was closer to a friend than an associate. And what was a good friendship without a few trips to the city guard station?

His expensive mirrored sunglasses (or, more likely, his chest hair) caught the eyes of a few guards at the desks as he walked in. Varric gave the secretary behind the counter his second most charming smile and flounced right past her, despite her protests. He’d been here enough times that she should have known better, really.

Aveline was inside her office, slumped over her desk with her head in her hands. The normally immaculately-organized desktop was a mess of papers, files, and three coffee cups. She looked up at Varric’s entrance and attempted a wan smile. It wasn’t convincing.

“Red.” he said in greeting. “Where’s the troublemaker?”

A groan caught his attention, pulling him into the office. The battered green couch crammed into the corner of Aveline’s office, serving as her bed on more nights than she’d ever cared to admit, had a different occupier today. Hawke was tall enough that one leg had to be curled to him to fit on the couch; the other was slung over the arm and dangling. Hawke looked, to be kind, like shit. But considering Varric was expecting to have to pay bail, this was an improvement.

“What the hell did you do this time, Jack? I was in the middle of a deal I’ve been working on for months.” Varric said. Despite his words, his tone was easy. He and Hawke had been through a lot together; he’d give up a lot more than a lousy business deal for the fucker. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to rake him over the coals for it, though.  

“I’m not -” Hawke stopped, his voice raspy and barely more than a whisper. He coughed weakly and tried again. “I’m not even wearing plaid.”

Leave it to Hawke to care more about a nickname than whatever had happened to him. Varric stepped forward and gripped Hawke’s shoulder with both hands, helping him lever up into a sitting position. Hawke reached tentatively for the purple-black bruise on his throat and prodded it gently, wincing.

“ _Shit._ You catch him trying to make friends again, Red?”

Aveline’s was eyeing Hawke’s throat with a clear look of guilt. “I asked him to help me talk to a suspect. Somehow, the man slipped the cuffs and attacked him.”

Varric frowned and took a seat next to Hawke on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. This sounded like a talk that he needed to sit down for.

“How the hell did he manage that? Those things are pretty tough.”

Aveline turned to her computer and held up a finger. Clearly, she was searching for something. While she did so, Varric turned to his couchmate and looked him over. Other than the dark bruise on Hawke’s throat, he seemed fine; he smiled easily as he met Varric’s eyes.

“Watch this.” both of them turned back to Aveline, who was flipping her monitor around to face them. The screen pulled up was from a security camera feed. On it, a thin elf with silver hair slouched over the table in the center of the room, his hands clearly cuffed to the table in front of him. Hawke was in the seat across from him, leaned back enough that his face was clearly visible to the camera. He held a cigarette in one hand.

“Mind if I smoke?” came the slightly tinny audio through Aveline’s speakers. The elf didn’t react as Hawke brought the cigarette to his lips. Varric noticed Hawke glancing at Aveline with a slightly guilty look on his face, but her eyes were fixed on the screen with a frown. She didn’t seem to be much bothered by the blatant disregard for rules that Hawke was showing.

On-screen, Hawke brought his index finger and thumb up to the cigarette. Varric had seen this stunt a hundred times; Hawke’s fingers turned red-hot, and the tip of the cigarette caught the flame as Hawke inhaled.

A bright, dazzling light flashed out from the left side of the screen, where the elf was seated. He was up and out of the chair instantaneously, and Hawke and Varric gaped as he not only lifted his hands as if the cuffs weren’t even there, but _walked through_ the steel table and right to Hawke.  Then, with one hand on Hawke’s throat and the other bunched in his jacket collar, the elf lifted Hawke bodily from the chair and threw him against the wall.

They watched in shock as the elf’s fingers dug _through_ Hawke’s skin and curled around his throat. The tattoos on the elf’s hands and throat were shining brightly, casting stark lights and shadows on the whole scene. Varric could see how Hawke coughed and tried weakly to push the elf away; he could also see how the elf’s fingers disappeared into Hawke’s throat, not as if he had punctured the skin, but as if the skin weren’t even there.

Then, the sound of a door flying open. Aveline and two more guards appeared in the frame of the camera, guns drawn. The elf looked away from Hawke, who was already sagging unconsciously against the wall, and slowly withdrew his fingers from Hawke’s throat. Then he set Hawke gently on the ground and lifted his hands into the air. The tattoos on his skin dimmed, then went out.

Aveline paused the video and flipped the screen back around. Her face was grim. To Varric’s right, Hawke was rubbing at his throat with a dumbstruck look. Varric felt much the same.

“Well.” Varric said. “ _Shit._ What the hell was that? You ever seen anything like that before, Red?”

Aveline shook her head. She looked tired, which was unusual for her; normally Aveline was as blank-faced as a rock, and twice as hard. It took a lot for her shell to crack like this. But she was much fonder of Hawke then she’d ever let on; watching him almost die in front of her must have been a bitch.

“It must have something to do with those markings. He moved right through the cuffs, the table, and Hawke. I’ve called a few people, but nobody has any idea what they are.”

“He said,” Hawke started, voice still thin, “He said ‘mage’. When he attacked me.”

Varric sighed, pinching his nose between two fingers. “I’m gonna guess this guy isn’t in for jaywalking. Who is he?”

“We don’t know.” Aveline replied. “We can’t find any records on him, and he wouldn’t talk to any of the guards. That was Hawke’s second meeting with him. Hawke and Isabela think that he’s from Tevinter, and that he was…” here she faltered. “That he was a slave.”

Varric blinked, then slumped back against the couch. “What the hell have you gotten us into, Red? This sounds like a shitty crime novel. Weird magic nobody’s ever heard of? Slaves from Tevinter? What’s next, a passionate love affair?”

“Not from me.” Hawke rasped grumpily.

“It gets worse.” Aveline added. “My guards in Lowtown found the body of a Tevinter Magister’s apprentice thrown in a dumpster. Her throat was ripped out. When we cross-checked with the log of Tevinter nationals currently in country, we found a hit. Hadriana Revus, apprentice to Magister Danarius Caelus.”

 _Shit._ Varric’s face must have gone pale, because Hawke turned to him with a curious expression, eyebrows raised. It was damn weird for him not to be prattling on as he usually did, but Hawke’s face was expressive enough to speak for itself.

“You’re in a world of trouble, Red.” Aveline’s face said she’d already figured that out. Always one step ahead, Aveline was. “Danarius Caelius is involved in some sick shit. There’s rumours of blood magic, and not the typical flavour either. He’s not going to be happy his apprentice is dead.”

“I’m glad you can confirm my concerns, dwarf.” Aveline said drily. “Unfortunately, we’re facing a serious problem. The elf has not confessed, and we have no evidence to tie him to the crime. Which means by the end of today he walks free. We can’t keep him longer than that without probable cause.”

“What about the blood?” Hawke asked raspily, gesturing to his shirt.

“The blood found on the elf when he was brought in was contaminated somehow. We can identify that the blood types match, but that’s not enough to hold him.”

“If you let him go, he’s going to run. Any idiot would.” Varric interjects. “And if he runs, and somebody from Tevinter finds him…”

“If we keep him, there’s a possibility of a diplomatic incident on our hands unless we deport him back to Tevinter.” Aveline shot back. “The only thing covering us now is that nobody knows who he is. But that won’t last very long.”

“And I’m guessing by the fact that we’re having this conversation that we care about protecting the bloodthirsty murderer that nearly strangled Hawke?” Varric looked at Aveline and Hawke in turn, then sighed. “Of course we do. So our only real option is to smuggle him out somewhere and convince him to lie low. If someone can convince him to talk, he might have a snowball’s chance in hell of figuring this whole thing out.”

“And the person who’s going to convince him…” Aveline continued softly.

Hawke blinked as both Varric and Aveline looked at him. His eyebrows furrowed down, but whatever he was going to say drove him into a coughing fit that sounded painful. Varric clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring the poisonous glare Hawke shot his way, and grinned.

“Good man, Jack. Now, what do you say we visit Anders and see about fixing that poor little throat of yours?”

\--

Calls were made, visits conducted, and plans put in place. Hawke returned to the Kirkwall Guard Station with Varric that night, throat fixed, and met a tired-looking Aveline in the front way. Most of the staff, minus the dispatch for the night shift and a few guardsmen changing over, were already gone for the night. This was an operation best performed without anyone else to see it.

“Did you feed him? He’s going to be cranky if you didn’t.” Hawke said as the trio strolled back towards the holding cells, where the elf had been transferred. Aveline shook her head.

“We brought him a meal, but he refused it. He hasn’t eaten since he came in.”

“Add it to my list of things to convince him to do then. How many are we up to now?”

“If it helps,” Varric drawled, “I have complete faith in you.”

The holding cell Aveline led them to was a more elaborate one, designed to hold mages rather than regular inmates. The walls, floor, and ceiling were lined with intricate runes and inlaid with other mystical mumbo-jumbo bullshit that Hawke had been told limited a mage’s ability to cast. Nobody was entirely sure it would work on… whatever the elf’s abilities were, but it was the best they had on hand. As Aveline told it, the fact that the elf hadn’t simply gotten up, killed a few guards, and walked out on his own when he had the chance was miraculous. And, for Hawke at least, somewhat reassuring. He liked to put it up to the elf having scruples. Refusing to thoughtlessly murder others for one’s own self-preservation was a good sign, especially for somebody who was about to spend a lot of time with him without any security measures in place.

The elf inside was perched on the edge of his hard cot, hands cuffed before him. True to Aveline’s word, there was a tray slid to the side of the room, the bologna sandwich and beans on it completely untouched. A cup was placed at the side of the cot, so the elf was drinking liquids at least. Hawke blamed Anders and his mothering for him noticing these types of things.

“Are you certain about this?” Aveline asked, for the third time. “He almost killed you. You’ve done enough, Hawke, you don’t need to do any more.”

Hawke rolled his eyes, one hand on the handle of the cell door. “And what, let _you_ have all the fun? I don’t think so, Aveline. You’ll have to go back to flirting with your guardsman. This one is mine.”

With that, he unlocked the cell door and strolled in to meet his new charge.

The elf looked up as Hawke entered, but didn’t rise. His eyebrows rose; his gaze flickered down to Hawke’s throat, took in the smooth, unbruised expanse of skin, then moved back up to his face.

“Hello again.” Hawke said smoothly, and _damn_ it felt good to speak without coughing. He walked a bit further into the cell and turned his back to the stainless steel metal sink set into the wall, leaning against it. “I’m hoping this conversation can be a little less violent than the last one.”

“Your persistence is irritating.” the elf said shortly. And that appeared to be the end of his contribution to the conversation.

“Listen.” Hawke said, crossing his arms. He knew Aveline was standing outside the cell, just waiting for a reason to burst in, so he did his best to keep the atmosphere as casual as possible, but the elf didn’t lend himself to that very well. He was a tense person, it seemed.

“The City Guard found and identified Hadriana Revus’s body. And you and I both know that you killed her, even if we don’t have enough evidence to hold you. If you walk out of here, your chances of escaping Kirkwall without being killed in some back alley are pretty slim. So let’s find another way.”

“What other way?” the elf said scornfully. “You claim to know so much, then you know this - either one of Danarius’s dogs gets me, or your corrupt city guard will. So if you have no reason to keep me here, let me leave.”

Hawke held up a finger. “Just a minute. Let’s talk about this. And if you’re not convinced, you can go. Is that fair?” Hawke didn’t wait for a reply before moving on.

“The Captain of the Guard - the lovely lady standing outside the cell, I mean - and I agree that whatever happened between you and that apprentice, it was probably self defense. We don’t want to see you locked up for it, and we certainly don’t want to see you deported back to Tevinter and your… old life. What I’m saying is, we want to help. If you’ll let us.”

Whatever the elf had been expecting, it wasn’t this. He blinked once, slowly, then his eyebrows sloped down into a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

“Why would you want to help me?” he asked. His tone went for hard, but Hawke heard the tones of disbelief and hesitation behind it. Hawke noted with interest that his eyebrows were dark, nearly black; very different from the white-silver of his hair.

“Why shouldn’t I want to? If you’re in the wrong here, you don’t deserve to be punished. And if you’re running from a bad situation, you deserve help. I’m not affiliated with the guard, except for knowing Aveline, so you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll hole up for a few days until we can get a feel for what’s going on in the city. Then, if you want, I’ll help you get wherever you want to go. No strings attached.”

“I nearly killed you.” the elf interjected, his voice harsh.

Hawke shrugged. “I survived. I would prefer you not do it again though, if you can help it. Not exactly the rough and tumble I’m into, if you know what I mean.” he paused. “So what do you say? Will you let us help?”

The elf stood, eyes still on Hawke’s face, and studied him carefully. His hands brushed down the sides of his cheap jumpsuit; a tic, Hawke considered, for when he was deep in thought. Against his first reaction (which was to keep talking), Hawke leaned against the sink quietly and let the elf think.

“...I reserve the right to leave whenever I choose.” the elf said finally, and something in Hawke’s chest unclenched. He hadn’t even known he was so invested in this until now. “And if this is a trap…”

“If this is a trap, you can use your fancy little magic trick to pull me apart, piece by piece.” Hawke stepped forward, though not _too_ much forward, and extended his arm. “Can I help you with your jewelry, there?”

The elf eyed his hand as if it were something distasteful, but eventually thrust his cuffed hands forward and allowed Hawke to unlock them. He rubbed at his thin wrists as Hawke returned the keyring to his pocket, then frowned as Hawke extended his hand again, this time empty.

“Garrett Hawke. What’s your name, stranger?”

“...Fenris.” he said quietly, giving Hawke’s hand a quick, firm shake and then snatching his own hand back like the touch had burned him.

Hawke just grinned and crossed to the door. He pushed it open, flipped Aveline her keys, and then gestured towards the doorway with a wide grin.

“Welcome to Kirkwall, Fenris.”

\--

Fenris followed the dark-haired man through the maze of the city guard station and towards the back door of the building, where the captain of the guard and a blonde dwarf in an expensive suit were waiting. The captain locked eyes with Hawke and nodded, but didn’t follow them outside. The dwarf did.

Outside, a sleek black sedan idled. The dwarf was in the middle of a conversation on his phone and took the passenger-side seat distractedly. Hawke threw the door to the backseat open and slid across to the other side without bothering to wait for Fenris.

This was his moment of truth. If he turned tail and disappeared now, none of them would catch him, and he’d be free.

Free to what? To skulk in the shadows of the city and nearly starve to death? To spend the next few years always sleeping with one eye open and one foot in the grave? It was bad enough when Hadriana was on his tail. Now that she was _dead…_ Fenris knew how his former master thought, and he knew that this would only make Danarius work harder to find him.

And if he never had to wear those damned cuffs again, it would be too soon. Fenris hated the way they made his brain go fuzzy with white noise, how they bowed his head and silenced that voice inside himself that he’d been nurturing since his escape. All of it, swept away by the feel of cool metal on his wrists and a little bit of strain on his shoulders. No, he didn’t want that ever again. So he would give this a chance, and if ( _when)_ things came crumbling down around his ears, he’d disappear into the dark, as he’d always done.

Hawke was inspecting his nails carelessly, his eyes very pointedly not on Fenris. He didn’t look up until Fenris was fully into the car and had slammed the door shut, but then he turned his head and grinned. His teeth were very white.

The car slid out of the back alley and turned onto the street. The dwarf in the front seat continued to talk into his phone, his words a mess of euphemisms and acronyms that Fenris couldn’t make sense of. He didn’t seem like the type that would be frequenting a city guard station. Then again, considering the reputation of Kirkwall’s city guard, maybe he was exactly the type.

Fenris himself fixed his gaze out the tinted windows, but was careful to keep his body turned just so. The day he let his guard down around three virtual strangers was the day he laid down and let Danarius clap a collar around his neck and drag him back.

Eventually, the silence became too much.

“Where are we going?” he asked stiffly. The dwarf’s eyes flicked up to meet his in the rearview mirror, then he ended the call on his phone and slid it into his pocket.

“I have a safehouse in the city. We all agreed that until we can get a handle on this shit, it’s best if you don’t show your face in public. Especially you, Broody, because no one’s gonna forget a face like that.”

Fenris’s lip curled, but he didn’t answer.

“Anyway, it’s already stocked, so you shouldn’t need anything. If you do, Hawke will call me and I’ll arrange to have somebody bring it by. So no running down to the gas station for a pack of chewing gum, alright? Think you can restrain yourself for a couple days?” the amusement in his voice was clearly directed at Hawke, who ducked his head in an almost sheepish manner.

“So I tried to pick up a six pack one time and almost got my head blown off. It all worked out in the end, right?”

“Thanks to Bianca, and _no_ thanks to you. Anyway. Hawke, here’s a burner.” Varric pulled a cheap flip phone from his pocket and passed it to the dark-haired man. “Turn your phone off and keep it that way. I’ll let the rest of your flock know you’ll be off the radar for a while. And Broody, everything they took from you at the station is in the trunk. Except for the clothes, I figured we could find you something a little less bloodstained.”

The car pulled up to a light, waited patiently for it to turn green, then turned onto the ramp for the highway. Traffic in Kirkwall never really died down, except for in the very early hours of the morning. Fenris traced the route in his head. They were heading to the south side of the city. Lowtown. A good place for a safe house… or for a back alley deal.

“Hey.” Hawke’s voice was soft in darkness. Fenris’s eyes flicked over to him involuntarily. Hawke’s gaze was steady on him. “It’s gonna be okay. I’d be out of my fucking mind if I were in your situation right now. But we’re going to keep you safe, whatever it takes.”

“Forgive me if I don’t fall to my knees in gratitude just yet.” Fenris snapped back, nerves nettled by the gentleness in Hawke’s voice. He was not a small child to be pitied, not by this man or any other. And he certainly wasn’t about to let this man lull him into a false sense of security with a few kind words. Fenris knew what the outcome of kind words was.

In the front seat, the dwarf chuckled. “Easy, Broody. No need to unsheathe the claws just yet.”

“Varric has a nickname for everybody.” Hawke said apologetically. “Mine is Lumberjack, for some reason.”

“We all know what the reasons are, Hawke, stop pretending.” the dwarf replied.

Varric. Surely the dwarf in front of him was NOT Varric Tethras, but how many dwarves with that first name could there bere? Especially ones that commanded sleek black vehicles at the drop of a hat and wore clothes that cost more than most families spent in a month.

Varric Tethras was everything short of a criminal mastermind. He’d been pulling Kirkwall’s strings since a successful journey into the Deep Roads had made him rich. Varric had taken his wealth, invested it, and reaped the returns in spades.

He was also, if the rumours were to be believed, involved in a smuggling ring that operated along the whole of the Waking Sea, one that had set more than a few cargoes of intended slaves free on the shores of the Free Marches. On the other side, he had ties to a radical group of free mages that had been accused of threatening to otherthrow the Chantry and abolish the Circle of Magi.

This dwarf, sitting in the front seat laughing at some crude joke Fenris’s seat-mate had uttered, was a very dangerous man. Which led him to believe (further) that Hawke himself was also dangerous. He had stumbled into a nest of vipers.

“Here we are,” Varric’s voice rang out, snapping Fenris out of his thoughts. “Home sweet home. Can you handle it from here, Hawke? I need to get back to work.”

“Of course.” Hawke answered. “Thanks Varric. You’re a good friend.”

Varric’s answering smile was quick. “Aw, shit, Jack, don’t make me blush in front of the elf. He might get the wrong idea about us.”

 _Definitely_ dangerous, Fenris thought darkly, eyeing the two of them.

The safehouse was what looked like a ground-floor apartment stuck between two empty storefronts, both of them with ‘out of business’ signs on their doors. The peeling paint on the door and the threadbare welcome mat didn’t do much to endear it to Fenris. But once Hawke unlocked the front door and pushed it open, Fenris realized he’d been misled.

The inside of the apartment was clean, well-furnished, and cheerful. Hawke gestured him in, then set about flipping the series of deadbolts and locks on the door. Fenris stepped into a hallway with real wood floors and tasteful cream walls, studded occasionally with a painting or wall sconce. A doorway to his left led into a kitchen; straight ahead the floorplan opened up into a living room with cushioney black sofa and an enormous flat-screen tv. Another hallway to the right of the living room turned and curved out of sight, likely leading to the bedrooms and bathroom, but a whisper of movement behind Fenris had him whipping around, hands raised defensively.

“Easy, easy,” Hawke said, raising his own hands in a peaceable gesture. He carried a small, familiar bag in one hand, which he offered out to Fenris after a moment. Fenris snatched his backpack away from him and unzipped the top, eyeing the contents even as he kept Hawke in his peripherals.

“...you’re giving this back to me?” Fenris said, unable to keep a note of incredulousness out of his voice as he pulled the handgun from the pack and examined it. A quick check showed that the magazine was in the pack as well, and still loaded. The box of ammo he’d been carrying around was in there as well.

“I’m trusting you not to shoot me if you don’t like the way I make my toast, but yeah. It is yours after all, though Aveline wasn’t amused at the lack of serial numbers on it. You hungry, or - oh, you probably want to change, right?”

Hawke gestured to the hallway that Fenris had yet to explore and then moved towards it. Fenris trailed him, pistol still in one hand.

There were three doors in the hallway. One was cracked open to reveal a bathroom sink. Hawke pushed another one of the doors open and waved Fenris in. The room was dominated by a large bed with a red coverlet. To the side of it stood two bookshelves and a dresser. A door to the left presumably held a closet.

“Varric told me somebody dropped some clothes off for you. They’re probably hanging up in the closet, if you want to - “ Hawke’s voice cut off as Fenris darted into the room and shut the door in his face.

Fenris didn’t exhale until the door was firmly locked behind him and he’d ruled out any other avenue of entry or exit. The room was secure. For the moment, he was safe. He allowed himself the brief indulgence of leaning his forward on the door and closing his eyes.

A shift on the other side, but Hawke didn’t try the doorknob or knock. Instead, the rustling moved away, then paused, as if Hawke had taken a few steps down the hallway.

“I’m going to make something to eat. Come on out if you get hungry.” Fenris heard, and then the presence on the other side of the door was gone.

Fenris stayed where he was for a few long moments, enjoying the feel of the pistol grip in his palm, the coolness of the door against his forehead, the whisper of clean air against his bare wrists. He knew he wasn’t safe, not really - there was only so much safety to be found in being trapped in a room in safehouse with a man you neither knew nor trusted - but Fenris had been running for so long, he couldn’t help but appreciate it when he got a chance to _stop._

Once he’d had his fill of quiet, Fenris carefully laid the pistol down on the bed and turned to the closet on the side of the room. Three sets of clothing were hung up neatly on the inside. Fenris pulled down a white button-down and a pair of grey trousers and slid them off the hanger. They looked to be about the right size. With another involuntary, careful glance at the door, Fenris reached for the zipper on his jumpsuit and carefully tugged it down.

The clothes were a bit big, but they were of better quality than Fenris had worn in a long time and comfortable. He tossed the jumpsuit into the corner of the closet and then sat down on the bed, carelessly toying with the fingers of one hand as he considered his situation.

He was, frankly, suspicious. He could think of no real reason that several strangers would put themselves in danger to help him, and certainly not to this extent. Allowing him to run, gifting him with a set of clothes or returning his pistol - that he could understand. But for one of Kirkwall’s most notorious criminals to give up a safehouse for him, for Hawke to voluntarily go into hiding as well after Fenris had nearly killed him - it just didn’t make sense. There had to be an endgame here, and it made Fenris uncomfortable to consider what it was. Would Hawke and Tethras be interested in the money Danarius would offer for his safe return? Or perhaps it was influence and connections they sought. Men were never so complicated as they wished to think they were, and this applied to men like Tethris and Hawke especially.

Fenris winced as he remembered the electricity in the air when Hawke had pulled on the Fade to light his cigarette. He was trapped in here with a _mage._ Maker knew that if he had no other reason to distrust the man, that was enough. Fenris had never met a trustworthy mage, and it frightened him to think what one would have to do to be able to walk the city’s streets free, safe from Kirkwall’s Circle of Magi. No, he had found himself in a nest of adders, with no way to escape. That the alternative was no better did not comfort him in the slightest. _Damn_ Hadriana for forcing him here!

Fenris blinked, and found that his body had slumped forward. His head ached from lack of sleep, and his limbs were heavy. He didn’t want to rest, felt vaguely terrified of what might happen were he caught with his guard so far down, but after three years of being on the run, he knew when he was at the end of his rope. If he tried to push much farther, it would end badly.

So Fenris curled up on the bed, on top of the covers, and tucked the pistol underneath his pillow. With one last glance at the locked door, he closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep.

\--

Fenris woke up with a jolt to the sound of something outside his room. Hazy dreams swam through his skull: _flashes of Hadriana leaning over him, waking him with a cruel twist of his skin; kneeling at Danarius’s side, struggling to keep his tired eyes open; the feel of a soft bed combined with the nausea of a hand stroking his hip, or the bruises left from curling up on a cold stone floor with no blanket to shiver under._

Fenris jolted out of the bed and scrabbled blindly for the trash can next to the nightstand. But he only knelt over it, stomach roiling, and waited out the nausea; after a few moments, it dissipated, leaving only a foul taste in his mouth. Fenris spat into the waste basket and then stood, glancing at the door.

The clock on the nightstand read 03:07 AM, surely a time any decent person would be sleeping. But it was with tense shoulders that Fenris quietly unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, glancing either way for movement.

He nearly stepped on a plate lying next to the door frame. The plate held a couple slices of cold, hard pizza. Fenris studied them suspiciously, but looked up quickly when a sound in the living room caught his attention.

The television was playing still; it was too soft to make out what it was, but the flickers of light danced across the living room, now casting the furniture in stark relief, now plunging it into darkness. Fenris caught sight of something lying the length of the couch, and silently moved closer to inspect it.

Hawke was laid out on the couch. One arm nestled behind his head, he slumbered quietly; his other hand loosely grasped the remote, which was laying on his stomach. As Fenris watched, he shifted sleepily, but didn’t wake. His leather jacket had been removed and left somewhere, leaving him in a dark t-shirt and jeans, one sock pushed down around his foot.

The sight was strange to Fenris. In his world, people only slept around Fenris because they didn’t know of his presence, or they had sufficient power to know that Fenris would not harm them. Hadriana had certainly never shut more than one eye with him around, but Danarius frequently napped with Fenris kneeling at his bedside or tucked up against him in a parody of an embrace. He had been given to many of Danarius’s enemies as well, mostly with the intention of Fenris killing them in their sleep. But never had he seen somebody choose to sleep in front of him that both knew what he was capable of and had no defense against it. It was - unnerving.

Turning from the sight, Fenris slipped into the bathroom, light off, and carefully eased the door closed. He rinsed his mouth to wash the foul taste of stomach bile out of it, then carefully urinated in the toilet and left it, not trusting the man slumbering only feet away to sleep through the noise of flushing it. Fenris was easing the door to the bathroom back open when his stomach grumbled pitifully.

 _Venhedis._ He hadn’t eaten in some time. He glanced at the cold pizza resting on the plate next to his door, but dismissed it. It would be foolish to eat something that was prepared for him. Instead, he crept silently past the sleeping form on the couch and into the kitchen, where he stood thinking of his options. It would be best to take something easily available and soft, that would make no noise. Carefully, Fenris edged the refrigerator open and snatched a block of cheese. Then a soft roll from a bag on the counter, and - he paused as he noticed the basket of apples on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Apples were not a quiet food and yet. And _yet,_ apples were relatively rare fruit, and he hadn’t had one since… since when? He couldn’t even remember.

He should not risk it, and yet Fenris found himself reaching for the fruit anyway. Snatching two apples, he settled his bounty in the crook of his arm and crept back towards his room.

Only with the door shut and firmly locked behind him did he breathe a sigh of relief and dig into his food. As he bit into the stolen apple and savored the crisp, sweet taste of it, he felt a pang of something unhappy roll through him, something - no. He had no reason for it. He would eat this food, and be glad of it, and that was that. That he had to creep past an offered meal to steal one instead would not take this victory away from him.

When he woke in the morning, the plate outside his door was gone.

\--

 **Varric left me nothing but red flannels to wear. And I haven’t seen Fenris since we got here. I think he only comes out when I’m sleeping,** Hawke texted to Isabela as he sat at the dining room table, picking at the stirfry he’d made for lunch. It had been two days, and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Fenris. Hawke had to take stock of the food in the kitchen just to make sure the elf was eating; small amounts of food were disappearing each night, but not much of it.

 **stop sleeping so much, then** was the reply he got. Hawke frowned at the phone and considered sending her a nasty picture. What a useless friend.

**Isabela, I’m serious. I’m getting worried. ...and I’m bored out of my mind.**

**give the man some time to settle in**

**he’s an ex-slave on the run in a foreign country, and now he’s locked in an apartment with only you for company**

Hawke scowled at the phone.  

**You’ve never complained about being holed up with me in my apartment.**

**that’s because we had a wider range of activities available to us <3 <3**

**by the way, if you find yourself feeling lonely, i bullied the location of the safehouse out of Varric ;)**

**but seriously, if you’re worried, go talk to him**

**it can’t hurt if there’s a door between you**

She was right. It useless to sit around and hope that Fenris would come out on his own. Clearly, he didn’t feel comfortable doing it, so Hawke had to do something to change that.

With a groan, he levered himself from the chair and padded towards the hallway. When he approached the door, he could hear the sounds of somebody moving around, but nothing else. They went silent at his knock on the door.

“Fenris?” he called. “One of Varric’s guys dropped off groceries today. There’s more apples.” he waited a few beats, but got no answer. “What are you even doing in there? Don’t tell me you’re reading Varric’s shitty harlequin romance series.”

A few more moments of silence, and then to Hawke’s surprise, the door was yanked open. Fenris scowled at him from the doorway. He was, at least, no longer wearing the jumpsuit; instead, he had on a black button down and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his figure much better than the jumpsuit had. Not that Hawke noticed.

“Hey!” Hawke said automatically, thrown off by Fenris’s sudden appearance. “I - didn’t expect you to answer. You know you’re welcome to use the whole apartment. You don’t have to stay cooped up in there.”

“You disturbed me to tell me _that?”_ Fenris said scornfully. Then his position shifted minutely, and his gaze wandered off to the side. “...I apologize. I don’t wish to appear ungrateful. You’ve done me a great service.”

“None taken.” Hawke said easily. “If you’d like to do me a great service in return, come watch some bad TV with me. It’s easier to stomach with company.”

Surprisingly, Fenris followed him to the living room, and curled up on one side of the couch while Hawke took the other. He was unsurprisingly barefoot. After flipping through several stations, Hawke settled on the second half of an action movie and turned the volume up.

They sat for a few minutes in awkward silence, eyes fixed on the television, before Hawke coughed and looked over at his housemate.

“I’m going to get a drink. Want anything? Beer, soda, juice?”

“I am fine.” Fenris said stiffly. Hawke shrugged and rolled to his feet to head into the kitchen.

Though it was just after one o’clock, Hawke felt no guilt in snagging a beer from the fridge. He popped the cap off of it on the counter and then stood in front of the fridge, eyeing the drink choices critically. If he were a snippy white-haired Tevinter elf, what would he drink? Not ‘Red Mabari IPA’, that was for certain.

Hawke’s eyes slid past the fridge to the small wine rack next to it. Somebody who spoke like they had a mouth full of velvet and satin probably enjoyed the finer things in life. And, bonus - the wine bottles were sealed. Fenris couldn’t complain Hawke were trying to poison him in that case. Grinning, Hawke plucked a decent-looking vintage from the rack, a corkscrew, and a wine glass and sashayed pack to the living room with his offering.

“Here.” he said, plunking the bottle and glass down on the coffee table in front of the elf, who looked up from the screen of a beat-up cell phone and leaned as far away from him as the couch would allow. As Hawke settled back down in his spot on the other side of the couch, Fenris picked up the bottle and glanced over it critically.

“You seem like a wine drinker. If that one isn’t up your alley, there’s a half dozen other bottles in there you’re welcome to.”

“...thank you.” Fenris didn’t so much as glance at the label before picking up the corkscrew and expertly opening the bottle. Hawke could see an experienced hand in the way Fenris poured the wine and swirled it around the bulb of the glass, but there was a slight hesitation before he brought the glass to his lips.

“Good?” Hawke asked, grinning through a swig of his beer.

Fenris sniffed the wine, then took a careful sip and paused, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When he swallowed, Hawke was distracted from the dark line of his throat only because of the slight almost-smile on his lips. Then, by the realization that Fenris had rolled the sleeves of his button-down, leaving his tattooed forearm on display as he clutched the wine glass. The white lines wrapped around his skin like vines, ending at the tips of his nails and snaking up under the cuff of the shirt where they could no longer be seen.

“Rowan’s Rose,” Fenris said, a hint of something in his voice. “A good year, perhaps 12:45?”

 _Doesn’t it say on the bottle?_ Hawke thought, then realized that Fenris was watching him watch Fenris’s arm, and hastily looked away.

“Sorry,” Hawke said apologetically as Fenris tugged the sleeves of his shirt down, covering the tattoos. “They’re just - unique.”

“They’re lyrium.” Fenris said, returning his eyes to the tv as he absently swirled the wine in his glass. Hawke found himself nodding, then frowned as his brain caught up to Fenris’s words.

“ _Lyrium?”_ he exclaimed incredulously. “In your _skin?_ How…?”

The line of Fenris’s shoulders was relaxed, but in a deliberate way. He kept his eyes on the TV as he spoke, his voice artificially light in tone.

“They were burned into my flesh to provide a power source for my former master. And they are the reason he wants his _pet_ back so badly. Alive if possible, but that may change after recent events.”

“And here I thought you were going for the tall, dark, and mysterious look.” Hawke said, his mouth on autopilot as he processed that information. _Lyrium_ burned into skin? Maker, that had to have hurt. But even as he contemplated the horrors of it, the spring of mana inside him expanded hopefully, feeling the buzzing presence of lyrium in the air. It wanted him to draw on it, to pull it into himself and _own_ it. He had never felt the draw of such a raw surge of power before. The concentrated, processed lyrium available to mages in Thedas was nothing similar at all.

Fenris snorted, the sound snapping Hawke’s attention back to the present. “There are easier ways of achieving that. Though it was certainly useful to Danarius for his slave to look intimidating.”

Hawke smiled, and he could feel the way it turned lopsided and secretive as he took in Fenris’s sharp cheekbones and the proud arch of his nose. It was amazing, he mused, how open-minded his libido could be when it came to murderous elves who had nearly ripped his throat out.

“‘Intimidating’ wasn’t really what I was going for.” Hawke answered softly, his voice dropping into a lower register of its own accord. “Though I do like that in a man.”

He could see the shift in Fenris’s face as he took in Hawke’s meaning, but it wasn’t the one he expected. Rather than returning the direct gaze, Fenris’s eyes slid away, and the line of his body tensed slightly. His hand jerked towards the coffee table, as if to free it of the wine, but he aborted the movement and gripped the stem of the glass tightly instead.

“I haven’t forgotten the effort you’ve put into helping me,” he said, in a seeming non-sequitar, “and though I have little money to offer, I can find other methods of repaying you.”

It took Hawke a few moments to make sense of that statement in the context of the conversation, but once he did, the little warmth in his belly died out instantly. Did Fenris think that he…? The implications left Hawke feeling cold.

“Fenris, that’s not what I was implying. Not at all.” he said seriously, reaching forward to pluck the glass from Fenris’s fingers before he broke it and setting it on the coffee table. “I won’t deny that I find you attractive, but I don’t expect repayment from you. Not in money, and not in… _that.”_

The atmosphere in the room chilled by several degrees.

“ _That?”_ Fenris said scornfully, all traces of his former humour gone. “Is the idea so insulting that you can’t even name it? I suppose it must be sickening to you to think of what _some_ of us must do to get by. Too low-brow for your sensibilities, is it?”

Hawke realized that he had almost instantaneously lost control of this conversation, and fear of saying another wrong thing was robbing him of his usual expressiveness. But his unusual silence was making the expression on Fenris’s face darken even further.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” he said quietly. Fenris snorted again, but this was a far cry from the amused sound he had made just minutes ago.

“Intention is not what matters.” Fenris said scornfully, and rose from the couch. In a flash, he was down the hallway and through the door to his bedroom. Then the door clapped shut, and the small _snick_ of a lock being thrown was audible over the sound of the TV.

“ _Shit.”_ Hawke said, with feeling. “Foot, meet mouth.”

Though he couldn’t help but let one side of his mouth curl up as he noticed that Fenris had, in all his mindless anger, still managed to take the bottle of wine with him.

\--

Donnic Hendyr was no stranger to making strange arrests. He was, after all, a Kirkwall City Guard; while he didn’t have much experience with other cities to compare it to, other guard transplants had assured him that the ratio of serial murderers and attempted cult leaders to regular criminals was much higher in Kirkwall than it was in other places.

Still, he did find it a little odd that the elf currently in cuffs hadn’t said a single word since his arrest. Frankly, Donnic found it unnerving. But work was work, and so he wrapped his arm around the blank-faced elf’s cold arm, steered him into backseat of the car, and drove him to the station.

“He doesn’t talk.” Donnic said to the intake officer, gesturing to the black haired elf. The criminal was glancing around himself slowly. Something about him made the hairs on the back of Donnic’s neck prickle.

“You have no others in incarceration here?” the elf said suddenly, nearly knocking Donnic on his ass. His voice was raspy, more a croak than anything. The intake officer gave Donnic a look, as if to say, _Doesn’t speak?,_ and went back to filling out his paperwork.

“You’ll get your choice of the holding cells, you will. Maybe even get the deluxe suite.” the woman drawled.

Both she and Donnic looked up in surprise as the elf’s eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped like a stone. Donnic let out a curse and kneeled next to him, fumbling under the thick black scarf he was wearing to find his pulse.

He touched something wet and jerked his hand back, cursing. His fingers were coated in blood. Donnic grabbed for the end of the scarf and yanked it off.

“Holy _shit._ ” the intake officer said, leaning over her desk. Her eyes were wide and frightened.

“Yeah” Donnic agreed, staring down at the gaping gash in the elf’s throat. The edges of it were dark and festered-looking. Clotted blood covered the skin below the gash. If Donnic hadn’t just seen the man upright and walking, he’d have expected him to have been dead for at least a few days.

“Call the captain.” he said grimly. “She’ll want to see this.”

\--

“You are a treasure.” Isabela said, laughing, as she pinched Hawke’s bearded cheek. The man scowled at her, but the effect was rather ruined by the quick squeeze he gave to her thighs where they were settled on either side of his lap.

As someone who had known Hawke for several years, and worked with him on more than one occasion, Isabela was intimately aware of Hawke personal failings. On the surface, the man was a veritable tiger - smooth, graceful, ferocious when threatened, elegant even with blood on his claws. Isabela had seen him make grown men and women cry with just a few words. He’d broken a man’s arm for grabbing Merrill’s ass, once.

Behind closed doors, however, he was a different story.

“I honestly don’t know how you manage, sometimes.” she said as she snatched his beer and took a long draw from it. “It’s a wonder the elf hasn’t killed you yet.”

“I’m sure he thinks so too.” Hawke grumbled. The red in his cheeks was _adorable._ “So, are you going to tell me where I went wrong, or not?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you.” Isabela shifted on his lap into a bit more comfortable position. Hawke’s hips jerked under her and he gave her a reproachful look. “Did it not occur to you that he might not like being indebted?”

“It didn’t occur to me that he might try to settle his debt by _offering to sleep with me,_ no.” Hawke hissed lowly. In front of them, the volume on the TV had been turned up to hide their conversation, though Hawke was still glancing at the hallway nervously, as if he expected Fenris to emerge any minute.

“And what else does he have to offer? You said his entire worldly possessions were handed back to him in a half-empty backpack. Did you think he was going to pull out a priceless piece of jewelry and give it to you?” Isabela challenged.

“You’re being ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with me shutting down an offer for sex in exchange for protection.”

Isabela narrowed her eyes at Hawke’s obstinate tone and pinched the skin on his arm viciously. Hawke hissed and smacked her hand away.

“You can cut the righteous attitude, Garrett Hawke. I understand that your exposure to the darker side of the world has been restricted to victimless crimes, but it’s time to expand your horizons. Whatever your personal beliefs on sex, it’s common the world over to use it for barter. And perhaps you haven’t put it to any thought yet, but this is probably one of the first times ever that that elf has had the _ability_ to offer it, rather than it being taken from him as a right by his master. Congratulations, you’ve stripped him of his autonomy, invalidated his totally justified fears about being in debt to a stranger, _and_ insulted him, all in one short conversation. Well done, you.”

Hawke opened his mouth - then shut it again, frowning. Isabela could practically see the hamster wheels turning between his ears as he processed her words. For a smart man, he could be incredibly thick at times. It would be irritating if he wasn’t so well-intentioned.

“So how do I fix it?” he said at last. Isabela grinned at him and patted him on the forehead.

“You apologize, and you tell him again that you’re doing all this out of the one speck of kindness in your black, shriveled heart. And most importantly, you _don’t_ get offended when he doesn’t believe you. Think of it as a business deal - wouldn’t you be suspicious of a good offer with no strings attached?”

“...you know, you don’t have to be right _all_ the time.” he said finally. “I’ll kiss and make up with Fenris, I promise.” His gaze turned sly. “And speaking of kissing…”

With a heavy heart, Isabela pressed one finger to Hawke’s lips, stopping him from leaning forward towards her face. “Not today, cupcake. You want to make this situation better or worse? Because worse would be coercing a friend into having sex with you right after rejecting the only other person in this apartment. So we’re going to be good today, and you can get reunited with your right hand later.”

Hawke’s groan was so dramatic that Isabela thought he might be dying. But he didn’t expire, just flopped back against the sofa and threw one arm across his face.

“Fine then. Let’s talk business. Heard anything from Varric?” he said, voice muffled.

“They got word a group of slave hunters was crossing the border yesterday, but Aveline detained them on the way into the city. High class ones, too. Your boy’s ex-master isn’t messing around, I’ll give him that.”

“As long as they don’t make it here. Anything from Tevinter about the apprentice?”

Isabela shrugged. “Varric’s Magister friend has heard that there have been quiet talks, but nothing official yet. Since nobody in connection with the killings was ever caught or detained, you know. Might be a different story if they get information that the Kirkwall city guard let Fenris walk out, but for now Aveline’s got it under wraps.”

“Remind me to send her a much nicer fruit basket at Satinalia this year.” Hawke remarked.

“Mmm.” Isabela stretched overhead, enjoying the way that Hawke peeked over his arm to watch her do it, then hopped up off Hawke’s lap. “Well, it’s time for me to go. It’s been fun, but I’m off to find greener pastures.”

“Isabela, you are _not_ going to go out and get laid after turning me down.” Hawke demanded, but Isabela was already at the door, tossing a flippant wave over her shoulder.

“Uh-huh, I’ll miss you too babycakes. Bye!”

And with that, she was gone. Hawke watched the back of her disappear out the front door, sighed, and got up to head to his room. Right hand, indeed.

\--

The peace lasted for one more day before being shattered spectacularly. Hawke was at the dining room table, answering some work emails while Fenris puttered around in the kitchen, when a strange sense of tension washed over him. Shutting the laptop slowly, Hawke got up and pressed himself against the wall of the kitchen, one hand sliding to his belt.

The door flew open with a resounding _crack,_ the door jamb broken straight through. Four men in tactical gear and face-covering bandanas stormed the front entrance, one of them pointing a pistol at Hawke’s head.

Hawke jerked back milliseconds before the gun sounded; the bullet whizzed past and lodged into the window behind him. Calmly, Hawke pulled his handgun from his holster and squeezed a few shots off around the corner blindly, listening to the four men scatter as they avoided his fire.

There was a crash in the kitchen, and then a muffled scream followed by a wet splat. Hawke ducked over to the doorway into the kitchen and caught Fenris throwing a lump of bloody matter on the floor. The body of the man he’d killed slumped across the counter, taking down the bowl of apples as he fell.

 _Whizz._ Another shot. Hawke drew on the pool of mana inside him, shaped it into a rough shield, and shoved it out in front of him. One of the men was sent flying by the blast; he crashed into a cabinet, his gun arcing away from him.

Hawke had to duck back again as several shots were fired in his direction. He couldn’t be sure what Fenris was doing in the kitchen, and he didn’t want to join him and get pinned down there. Instead, he waited for a lull in the gunfire and then darted over to duck behind the couch. It was a more precarious position, but a more opportune one as well.

One of the men was headed for the kitchen. Hawke saw him squeeze off a round, but then the back of his head exploded in a spectacular fashion. Taking the distraction for the gold opportunity it was, Hawke vaulted over the couch and reached for the electricity in the light fixtures, bringing it down upon the two men left standing. Without an object to focus the magic it was very nearly too far away; without even thinking, Hawke felt his magic clamp down on the wellspring of lyrium nearby and draw on it, releasing a flood of energy that boiled in his veins. The burst of electricity that followed was closer to lightning than anything else; it arched through the bodies of the two men and sent them crashing to the floor.

All four men, down. Hawke had only a half second to breathe before something barreled into him and slammed him to the floor.

It an eerie reproduction of the first day he had met Fenris, only without the presence of a hand inside him throat. This time, Fenris only fisted the collar of his shirt, a snarl on his lips.

“ _Never_ do that again,” he spat into Hawke’s face, shaking him for good measure. “My power is not yours to draw on as you please, _mage.”_

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to argue about this right now. We need to get out of here, in case there are more of them. Can you let me up and go grab your stuff?”

Fenris stared him down, but relented and let go of his shirt. Hawke wasted no time in pushing to his feet and running to his room to begin the process of packing.

Less than five minutes later, they were both in the living room again. Fenris had his small backpack thrown over one shoulder, and was systematically checking the pockets of the four dead slave hunters. Hawke texted a hurried message to Varric - _compromised,_ that was all he needed to say _-_ and then snapped the flip phone shut.

“Are you ready?” Fenris nodded and stood up. “Let’s go. We’re headed to the parking garage.”

Between Hawke’s experience working on the wrong side of the law, and Fenris’s time on the run, it was easy for the both of them to fall into a cautious routine as they exited the building. Fenris’s actions were clearly those of a lone man, but Hawke knew how to compensate for that as they moved. The path to the garage was clear; still, Hawke couldn’t calm the itching in his skin as they made their way to the car Varric had left for them, the sensation that if they didn’t hurry, they’d run into more pursuers.

“Where are we going?” Fenris asked as they climbed into the car. Hawke jammed his pistol into the middle console where it was easily accessible and focused on calming his breathing so that he could back smoothly out of the parking space and attempt to drive like a normal human being. It had been a while since he’d been in a shootout; he was out of practice.

“To another safehouse. Mine, this time. Can you keep an eye out for suspicious vehicles?”

Hawke say a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and took it for a nod. As casually as possible, he directed the car to the parking garage’s exit and pulled out onto the street.

They passed two cars from the Kirkwall Guard a few streets away from the building, sirens flashing as they wove through traffic. Luckily, they were far enough away that there was no chance of pursuit, from the guard at least. Aveline would call them off if he rang her about it, but she’d yell at him for it later, and that was best avoided. Hawke took a right, heading for the highway.

“I think I underestimated exactly how important that lyrium is to your ex-owner.” he said as he sped up the on-ramp. “Clearly the stock of walking power sources at Lyrium-R-Us was out.”

Fenris started to reply, but cut off at the sound of Hawke’s cell phone ringing. Hawke pulled it out and opened it one-handed as he weaved through traffic.

“Varric.” he said in greeting. “Thanks for letting us stay at your place. We left you a present - the bloody heap of organs on the kitchen floor was Fenris’s idea.”

“And here I was saying you’ve never gave me anything.” Varric said smoothly. “Anybody hurt?”

Hawke eyed Fenris out of the corner of his eye. The elf didn’t appear to be in pain, though it was anyone’s guess whether that meant he was actually uninjured or not.

“We’re fine. We’re going to find another place to hole up. I’ll contact you when we’re settled in.”

“Be careful Hawke. I don’t know how these bastards made it across the border without me finding out, which means I don’t know who else could be out there.”

“Hawke.” Fenris said from his right. “Behind us, to your left.”

Hawke glanced in his rearview mirror and caught sight of a grey SUV speeding up the left lane. He couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just an angry soccer mom late for her mani-pedi, but as the SUV pulled up to their left flank, the window rolled down and he caught the flash of a muzzle inside.

“Let me call you back, Varric, we’re about to play a driving game.” Hawke said into the phone, and snapped it shut without waiting for an answer. He yanked the steering wheel to the right and veered into the next lane as a man leaned out of the window of the car and took aim at him.

“These assholes are _really_ pushing their luck.” Hawke growled as another car blared its horn and swerved out of their way. He slammed on the brakes briefly, causing the SUV to shoot past them, and swerved over another lane.

The SUV was now a few car lengths ahead of them, but the sudden swerving and stopping had cleared the area of vehicles. Hawke couldn’t slow down enough to avoid catching back up with the vehicles without coming to a complete half and risking being hit by oncoming traffic. He was planning furiously when a black-clad arm holding a pistol appeared in front of his vision.

“Speed up.” Fenris said shortly. Hawke said nothing, and did as he asked.

 _Bang._ The rear tire on the SUV blew out, leaving the vehicle careening over the road. Hawke let out an amused ‘ha’ and blew past the squealing car.

“Good aim.” he said, once they were past the danger and had calmed down a bit. “Don’t meet many people that can shoot like that.”

“Try spending three years on the run and see how much better your aim gets.” came the wry response. Hawke grinned and glanced at his passenger, who was back to staring out the window as if nothing had even happened.

“Three years, huh? That must have been exciting. And still at it, I see.”

“One should make a living out of what they’re skilled at.” Fenris shot back. But something was off about his tone, and the joke fell flat. When Hawke risked another glance, Fenris’s face was pensive and closed-off. They drove the rest of the few miles to the exit in silence, and came out onto the streets of Lowtown.

The differences between this section of the city and Varric’s safehouse in Hightown were enough to make one believe they’d entered another time. Buildings, crumbling and covered in graffiti, sagged against each other tiredly. On the sidewalks, tired-faced men and women smoked cigarettes. Their children played in the dirt beside them. They passed a gang of dwarves and humans in green bandannas heading into a back alley, and stopped at an intersection near a street corner full of men and women in bright, skimpy clothing. Hawke smiled and waved away the woman in the leather dress that was bold enough to approach them.

“When my family first fled the Blight, this is where we came.” Hawke explained as they made their way down a side street full of trash and old furniture pieces. “We lived in Lowtown for almost four years. Then I met Varric, and we scraped together enough cash through jobs to move our way up. But I kept the house. You never know when you might need a place to squat.”

He could see the surprise in Fenris’s eyes as he glance at Hawke, took in his worn-but-expensive leather jacket and his polished chelsea boots, and then compared that with the squalor outside. It was an incongruous picture, and on purpose; Hawke’s mother had done everything within her power to erase the memory of their first years in Kirkwall, and Hawke had done everything he could to help her. It wasn’t that it bothered him, but his mother had been a different story. Her memories of those years were best forgotten.

“It goes without saying that this place isn’t quite as comfortable as Varric’s safehouse. But if they managed to find us there, we can’t risk another one of his. Besides, I couldn’t afford the cleaning bill if we got any more blood on one of his expensive carpets.”

The apartment complex they pulled up to was made of an unattractive tan-coloured rock that was grimy with several decades’ worth of use. The windows on the first floor were barred up with black, twisted metal. One of the crumbling cement steps leading up to the door was very literally broken in half, forcing them to step over it. It looked just as it had when they’d lived here, down to the man drowsing on a mat of cardboard boxes in the corner of the front landing.

“Fucking _knife-ear,”_ or maybe he wasn’t drowsing as much as Hawke thought. Quickly, Hawke yanked the door open and gestured Fenris inside.

“Sorry. This area of Kirkwall isn’t very fond of elves. We should probably keep you out of sight so nobody tries to stab you.” he said apologetically as they made their way up to the second floor.

“I’ve no need of your protection.” Fenris said irritably. Hawke rolled his eyes.

“You just shot the tire out on an SUV with a pistol while I was driving seventy miles an hour. It’s not _you_ I’m worried about.”

That seemed to be enough to mollify the elf, who simply nodded and followed him as he strode down the grimy hallway to the door at the very end. Producing a set of keys, Hawke inserted one into the door and unlocked it, pushing the door open to reveal a small room. It was furnished with a couch, a threadbare rug, and an old TV on top of a cardboard box.

“Home sweet home!” he said cheerfully. A roach crawled down the wall just inside the doorway.

“I don’t have any fancy wine here like Varric does. Hopefully you don’t mind being a cheap date. But we should be safe here. Not even Varric knows I own this place, and it’s not on record anywhere. The only one that knows is my sister Bethany.”

They made their way into the living room and dropped their bags on the couch. The puff of dust that emerged from the fabric was less than inviting. Luckily, Hawke seemed to care more than Fenris did; the elf had taken in the place without so much as a blink of an eye.

“It is fine.” Fenris said, then hesitated. “I should… thank you. For going through all this for me.”

“No thanks necessary.” Hawke said with a grin. “You’re letting me use you as an excuse to not do any work. You can take that bedroom right there, if you want. Maybe consider washing the blood off from when you stuck your whole hand in that guy’s chest.”

Fenris didn’t even spare a look for his bloody hand, just disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door with a thump. Hawke slumped down on the couch and dug his phone out of his pocket to call Varric.

\--

“Take this twice a day, with meals, and you’ll be feeling better within the week. And _nothing strenuous._ ”

The dwarf took the bottle from him with a wordless grunt and made his way carefully to the door, swaying only a little bit. Far less than when he’d come in, at least. Anders hadn’t been able to burn all the illness from his body, but he’d gotten enough that the dwarf would be able to rest more easily as he healed.

Returning his gaze from his patient to the room he was currently standing in, Anders sighed. The amount of vomit on the floor was disgusting. And he was short-handed today, so he was the one who would be cleaning it up.

“There better be gloves this time around.” Anders muttered, stepping over the mess.

He was rooting around in the supply closet, an empty cardboard box in one hand, when his phone chirped from his pocket. Cursing, Anders dug it out and tapped the screen. A text bubble popped to the surface, along with an attachment.

“Since when do you need me as a consultant, Aveline?” he muttered. Then he clicked on the attachment, and his eyebrows rose very nearly into his hairline.

“Fran? I’m going out for a bit. It’s an emergency.” he called. His perpetually overworked, underpaid secretary/nurse just nodded, bless her heart, and started shuffling through the papers on the front desk.

He was flicking through the handful of coins in his jacket pocket, wondering if it would be enough to get a taxi to the guard station, when a dark blue pick-up glided to a stop in front of him, a familiar ginger-headed woman in the driver’s seat. Anders pulled the door open and slide in next to Aveline, who wasted no time throwing the truck into first gear and pulling away from the curb.

“And how exactly did you know I’d leave work to help you?” he asked, tone light. Aveline glanced at him and smiled slightly.

“Did you open the attachment?”

“...Fair point.”

Something wet brushed against the inside of Anders’ wrist. When he twisted his shirt cuff around to inspect it, he found the whole bottom of it soaked in blood. Grimacing, Anders rolled it up so the stain was on the inside and not likely to damage the spotless interior of Aveline’s truck.

Anders was the only healing mage working in Darktown, and thus spent most of his days raccoon-eyed, rumpled-looking, and dotted with blood. Despite looking like a middle-aged man twenty years too soon, the Kirkwall Circle classified Anders as one of the strongest mages in the city, much to his perpetual annoyance. He would agree that spirit healers of his caliber were few and far between, but it didn’t do him much good when he spent his days healing Kirkwall’s poor population for mere coppers. Were he voicing this thought aloud, Aveline would remind him that it was _his_ choice to work at the clinic, but Anders thought that was a rather unfair thing to bring up. After all, if he didn’t do it, who would? And besides, it was his work at the clinic that allowed him to retain full and free use of his magic, rather than being doped up on fade blockers. That was worth a few long nights and the occasional visit to the Circle.

Had Anders been born several hundred years before, when Kirkwall’s Circle of Magi was infamous for human rights violations and run by the Mad Commander Meredith Stannard, he might have felt a bit more strongly about the relationship between templars and mages. As it was, the men sitting behind the desks at the Circle of Magi wearing unflattering uniforms weren’t exactly threatening by today’s standards. Anders was more afraid of Aveline than he was Knight-Commander Rutherford.

“So what happened, exactly? This _is_ an unusual occurrence over at the city guard station, isn’t it?”

Aveline, no-nonsense driver that she was, jerked the car over into the smallest opening between two cars in the next lane that she could find, mere feet between them and the cars on either end, and steadfastly ignored the blaring horn of the car behind them. Anders’ hand scrabbled for the emergency handle.

“Donnic brought him in.” Aveline said as she drove. “He said the elf was just wandering through traffic and caused an accident, so he cuffed him and brought him to the station. The elf didn’t say a word to him. When they got there, the elf asked him if we had anybody else in the holding cells and then just collapsed on the floor. They pulled his scarf off and saw the wound in his neck.”

“That’s… I don’t want to jump to any conclusions before I’ve seen the body, Aveline, but…”

“I know.” Aveline said, saving him from voicing his thoughts aloud. “Trust me, you’re not the only one that feels that way.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way, until Aveline swung into a spot in the parking lot of the morgue. Anders found himself strangely reluctant to get out of the car. There must be something about him, Anders thought wearily, that invited them to drag him into horrible situations. If he could figure out what it was, maybe it would stop happening and he could go home and get a decent night’s rest. The idea was nearly enough to bring a tear to his eye.

“ _Anders.”_ Aveline called from the door to the station. Anders’ shoulders slumped, and he slid out of the truck and slammed the door shut.

Inside the morgue, there was a strange feeling in the air, though on the surface nothing looked different. The mortician greeted them at the door and led them back into the room. Once inside, he gestured to a white-sheeted form on a steel table and let, shutting the door behind him.

“Nervous fellow, isn’t he?” Anders said as they walked up to the table.

“Wouldn’t you be, if somebody dropped this off at your office?” Aveline asked, reaching for the edge of the sheet. As was her manner, she pulled it down brusquely and without hesitation, revealing the pale face and torso of the elf. Anders could see immediately the green tint to his skin and the bloating in his cheeks, though he suspected that if the man had been upright and moving, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But dead, he looked very….well, dead.

“He was wearing a scarf over his throat.” Aveline said, drawing Anders’ attention down to the gash along his neck. It was asymmetrical, deep enough on the side to have cut the carotid artery but had only nicked the trachea. Still, decomposition had forced the lips of the gash wide, and they were bloodless, which exposed the tissue within. _Not_ a pretty sight.

“I want you to note that you have asked me to touch a dead body, Aveline, and I expect the gravity of that request to be reflected next time the clinic asks for aid.” Anders said lightly, reaching out with one hand. Swallowing, he pressed his fingers to the cheek of the corpse and let his eyes flutter shut. The whispering mass inside him expanded and tumbled forth through the connection. It spread through the inside of the body and nudged at the parts of the flesh that felt wrong and the strange emptiness within the veins. People, even dead people, shouldn’t feel like this man did.

“You know, I was really hoping it was just necromancy.” Anders said with a sigh as he withdrew his fingers from the corpse’s face. “But why would that be an option, when you could have the victim of _blood magic_ in your morgue instead?”

He accepted the wipe Aveline offered him and cleaned his hands thoroughly, though he knew he’d be scrubbing them once he got home anyway. Aveline’s face was grim.

“So it _is_ blood magic.” she confirmed. Anders nodded.

“The body was dead for at least a day before it was reanimated. A necromancer could reanimate the corpse, but not for as long as this one was up, and he couldn’t be as far away from the body. It would have taken the blood from this corpse as well as a few others to accomplish such a thing.” Anders lifted the sheet back over the corpse and backed away, feeling dangerously unsettled. “Do you have any idea _why_ exactly you have a corpse used in blood magic in your morgue?”

“Have you talked to Hawke lately?” Aveline asked, apparently apropos of nothing. Then Anders remembered who they were talking about, and groaned.

“What has that idiot gotten himself into this time?”

“More than we know how to deal with.” Aveline replied grimly. “Let’s go back to the station and you can write down everything you learned for me.”

\--

“Hey.”

Fenris jerked his head up to look at the man occupying the other side of the couch. Hawke’s brows were drawn together in an unusually serious way, the skin between them creased with something that looked frighteningly like concern.

“You’ve been quiet since we got here. Something wrong?”

Fenris looked back down at the wine in his hands. Hawke had said nothing when he eschewed the glass to tilt the bottle straight to his lips; while Fenris was of the opinion that a wine of this vintage wasn’t worth dirtying a glass over, his actions still begged questions that he didn’t want to answer.

The label of the bottle was as generic as possible; a stylized drawing of a bunch of grapes, the words beneath it just a series of meaningless scribbles to his eyes. Fenris brought it up to his mouth and took a long draw.

The words had sounded painfully sincere. It set every bell in Fenris’s head ringing. And what did it say of him, that he had been conditioned to fear such a tone?

_“Something is troubling you, pet.”_

_Fenris, kneeling on the floor as he systematically stripped and cleaned each piece of his pistol, kept his head ducked in deference. Danarius sat close by at his work table, a half-finished dinner at his elbow._

_What a waste, to use such concern on him. Fenris was no simpering servant to be bothered by trivialities. He performed his duties as he was expected to, as any slave was expected to. That Danarius assumed him capable of such emotion was absurd._

_“No, master.” he said in response. The carbon caked on the pieces of his pistol was particularly stubborn tonight; he had left the upkeep off for too long, and now he had to scrub for much longer to return the them to a gleaming finish._

_“Nonsense, my little wolf. Come here.”_

_Fenris rose at the crook of Danarius’s finger obediently and crossed over to him, kneeling at his side. Danarius’s fingers slipped below his chin and tilted his face up. His eyes were gleaming softly. Fenris met them obediently, as any good slave would._

_“I know that Hadriana’s jealousy of your position at my side is trying on you. You must attempt to understand why she feels this way. She can never offer me the things that you do, pet. Our relationship is much more involved than hers and mine could ever be.”_

_Danarius’s thumb slid forward to the edge of Fenris’s mouth and stroked the skin there softly. The expression on his face was tender. Fenris struggled to maintain eye contact. He did not understand why Danarius treated him so. A man had no affection for a hammer or a sword; why, then, did he treat Fenris this way?_

_“So obedient.” the thumb at the edge of his mouth pressed in ever so slightly, parting Fenris’s lips. Danarius’s eyes traced his mouth as he rubbed his now-wet thumb across it. “I did well in choosing you. My precious little wolf.”_

_Later that night, as Fenris lay next to his slumbering master, pressed in the mattress by an arm slung low across his hips, Fenris allowed a tendril of the tight knot in his chest to slither forward. A sword did not have feelings. A sword performed its duty as it was wielded, and neither condoned or condemned the action. A sword merely existed, and no more._

_Fenris could not be a sword when his master insisted instead on treating him like a man. And every with every passing moment that Fenris acknowledged his own humanity, the knot inside his chest grew, and morphed, and threatened to swallow him whole._

“Fenris. FENRIS.”

He started, and realized he was clutching the neck of the wine bottle so tightly that his knuckles were cramping. He eased his grip off and placed the bottle down next to him on the couch.

Hawke had one arm outstretched, as if he had thought of touching Fenris, but stopped to deliberate the action. At Fenris’s look, he withdrew it.

“I am fine.” Fenris said shortly. Hawke frowned.

“Fenris-”

“I said, I am _fine.”_ Fenris snapped, feeling his markings flare with the heat of his anger. Hawke didn’t shrink back from him; just raised his eyebrows in an unreadable expression.

“I was only going to ask you to pass the remote.” he said, after a pause. Fenris glanced over, and saw the item in question lying on the armrest on his side of the couch.

Fenris knew he was lying. Hawke knew he was lying as well. But Fenris felt the anger drain out of him at the simple statement.

Hawke had every ability to wrest control of his emotions from Fenris’s grasp, but he was choosing not to. And somehow, the act of hearing it in that simple joke was more believable than all his previous reassurances. It was not meant to make him seem trustworthy, and because of that, it did.

“Do not turn it to _I was a Teenage Nug Herder,_ ” Fenris said curtly as he passed the remote. Hawke accepted it and turned back to the TV. Simple. Easy. It was nearly unbelievable.

“I’m hurt that you think so little of me.” Hawke replied as he tapped at the remote. The screen flickered. “Why would I choose that when _Deep in the Hinterlands_ is on?”

Fenris rolled his eyes, but picked the wine back up and tilted it to his lips. On the screen, a nude dwarf with a branch in his hand faced down an angry bear.

They watched three full episodes before Hawke fell asleep on the couch. The man snored like a bear on his back, but when Fenris jabbed him in the calf with his foot, Hawke rolled onto his side with a sleepy grumble and quieted.

Inside his pocket, Fenris’s phone buzzed. Grimacing, Fenris closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths in, then pulled the device out and unlocked the screen.

Another text. Whatever peace he’d found in two hours of bad television drained away. Fenris shoved the phone back into his pocket and pushed to his feet, stalking towards his room. If he was going to drink away his bad mood, he could at least do it where it wouldn’t disturb Hawke’s nap.

\--

“ _It’s like living with a teenager. He’ll be halfway through eating lunch and then just get up and disappear for hours without a word. And it’s getting worse. If we don’t resolve this soon, you may stumble over my lifeless body in the entrance hall.”_

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a drama queen?” Isabela said back. The noise Hawke made in protest sounded, to her ears, something like a cat that had just been thrown into a pool.

“ _I don’t know why I call you for sympathy, you clearly have none to spare.”_ Hawke grumbled at her. Grinning, Isabela hopped off the counter and took herself and her yogurt into the living room. Merrill was doing something complicated with a box of broken mirror shards; Isabela sat on the far side of the couch to eat her snack, just in case Merrill blew something up. Again.

“Maybe you should do more than give him wine and make him watch bad television.” she advised between spoonfuls of yogurt. “What does he like anyway? Besides brooding and shooting things.”

Hawke made a thoughtful noise. “He likes apples. And playing on his phone. He doesn’t read or anything. And I’m pretty sure he has a crush on the Champion of Kirkwall. Every time I flip through the news and they’re talking about him, Fenris makes me stop and listen to the whole segment.”

There was no possible way Isabela could hide her laughter at that. Merrill glanced up at her, smiled widely as if she’d been part of the joke, and went back to drawing precise cuts on her arm. Isabela didn’t know why she put up with this in her own house.

“Maybe you should get him an autograph, then. Or arrange a meeting? I’m sure he’d like to see his personal hero face to face. I’d like to see it, at any rate.”

“You’re horrible.” Hawke said into the phone. “Are you giving me advice or making fun of me? Are they always the same thing to you?”

“Trust me, love, if it was an option, advice wouldn’t be the thing I’m giving you right n-” Isabela cut off as her phone beeped in her ear. When pulled the phone away to check the screen, Aveline’s name was flashing across it. “Hold on just a minute, handsome, Aveline is calling me... Aveline? What can I do for you, sweet thing?”

“Have you talked to Hawke lately?” Aveline said shortly. Ever one to get down to business, that Aveline. She was a tough nut, but Isabela didn’t mind terribly. It made it all the more fun to try to crack her.

“I’m talking to him right now. We’re having phone sex.” she said lewdly. Much to her disappointment, Aveline ignored the bait.

“Tell him I just got off the phone with an attache from the Tevinter embassy. They want to know what we’ve done to investigate the death of Hadriana Revus. If we don’t get a handle on this situation soon, it’s going to get troublesome.”

Well, that took all the fun out of the conversation. It was nice for Isabela to not be the one causing problems for Aveline for once, but this was a rather bigger situation than Isabela normally found herself in. If things went sideways, somebody could get hurt. And she wasn’t really interested in skipping town any time soon. Kirkwall was too much fun for that.

“I’ll let him know, Aveline.” Isabela said soothingly. “A little danger might add some spice to our dirty talk, don’t you think?”

Aveline made a noise of disgust, and then the line went dead. Isabela smiled, took another bite of her yogurt, and switched back to Hawke’s line to relay the message.

\--

A week passed with little fanfare. Hawke continued to check in with the guard captain and the dwarf, who both reported that besides the dead man showing up at the guard station, nothing strange had happened. With each passing day, Fenris found his shoulders a little tighter, his temper a little shorter.

He had fought off dozens of Danarius’s men since his escape, and he knew without a doubt that staying in the same place for more than a week was the best way to ensure they would show up. On top of that, there was only so much time one could spend watching bad television in an apartment with only three rooms before it became too much. Hawke divided his time between conducting ‘business meetings’ via an old laptop and his cell phone, and watching increasingly ridiculous tv shows on the television in the ‘living room’. Fenris did bodyweight exercises until his muscles screamed, drank wine, and stared at his phone.

He was doing the last two on the list tonight on his end of the couch as Hawke flipped through the channels, stopping occasionally to remark to himself about something or other that was playing. Normally, Fenris would be watching as well, but he couldn’t stop looking at the string of texts lighting up his screen.

The first had been sent nearly two weeks ago. They’d come every few days since then; always unanswered, and yet still, the sender wouldn’t give up. Fenris hadn’t bothered to try reading any of them until the voice mail he’d received this afternoon. He’d holed himself up in his room, turned the volume down to the lowest possible setting, and listened to the soft, musical voice on the other end of the line.

 _Leto,_ the voice said quietly. _It’s...it’s Varania. Your sister. You haven’t answered any of my texts, so I decided to call. I’m in Kirkwall. I hope you’ll meet me, but... I understand if you choose not to. You’ll always be my brother, Leto, and I’ll always love you._

End message. Fenris had listened to it three times more, eyes closed, feeling a wave of something nostalgic and painful take over his body as the voice spoke to him. It was different, and yet… he knew it. He _knew_ that voice, in a way that couldn’t be faked.

He’d thought Hadriana was lying to him when she’d told him he had a sister. She would say anything to save her own life in that moment. Fenris knew that. And yet… and yet, was it so unlikely? _Couldn’t_ he have a sister?

Fenris opened the messages and scrolled through them, his eyes tracing the unfamiliar letters. He ached to know what they said, even as he pushed down the urge to delete them and be done with it. It had to be a trap. Varania could not be real.

Cursing silently to himself, Fenris blacked the phone’s screen and flung it onto the coffee table. He had no more patience for this farce. It would only worsen his already foul mood. Instead, he looked up to the television and focused on the screen, willing the whole incident to leave his mind.

For once, the television wasn’t tuned in to some absurd cooking show. Instead, a reporter appeared on screen, a slim human woman with coiffed blonde hair in a red blouse. In the corner of the screen, a video played of a group of guardsmen marching several men out of a warehouse. They video zoomed in as one was shoved unceremoniously into the back of a guard car.

“Several arrests were made tonight in connection with a trafficking ring that has been operating in the Free Marches for several months. Many are saying the anonymous tip, which led to the discovery of the warehouse used in the operations, was sent in by the infamous ‘Kirkwall Champion’, a vigilante known best for his Robin Hood-style activities in the area of Kirkwall. Though this would not be the first case of the Kirkwall Champion calling in an anonymous tip, it’s unusual for the vigilante to leave matters to the City Guard instead of handling the problem themself. Kirkwall City Guard Captain Aveline Vallen has publicly condemned the actions of the Kirkwall Champion, but admits that investigations into the Champion’s identity have been totally unsuccessful.”

“That trafficking ring brought over sixty people into Kirkwall as unpaid maids and heavy laborers. They found two of them dead in the warehouse from malnourishment.” Hawke explained as the video of the arrests took over the screen.The footage was shaky and low resolution, likely shot from a phone camera.

“It is good that the Champion tracked them down, then. Though he would have done better to slit their throats and leave their bodies for the city guard to find.” Fenris agreed. He saw Hawke smile in the corner of his vision, a small thing that seemed warmer than his usual easy grins.

“Maybe he’s on vacation. Even vigilantes need time off.” the dark-haired man suggested wryly. Fenris huffed in amusement and curled his legs up onto the couch so he could drape his arms over his knees, his cup of wine cradled in his hands. Though Fenris chafed at being cooped up for so long, something about spending time with Hawke put him at ease in a way he didn’t find with many people. The man was easy to get along with, undemanding, and certainly hand-

Fenris blinked, and glanced over at his companion. _Yes,_ he admitted grudgingly. Hawke was handsome. Fenris liked his messy hair, his strong jaw, his short beard. He liked the crinkles at the edge of Hawke’s eyes, sewn there from laughter. He admired the curve of his bicep, stretching the fabric of his sleeve as he moved.

It was an unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome situation. Fenris didn’t find himself staring at strangers on the street in the way that many did. There was nothing enticing to him about a quick tumble with a stranger. But he and Hawke had been nearly attached at the hip for several weeks now, and his respect for the man had grown in fits and starts, until it was too much difficulty to deny it any longer. And, more puzzling, Hawke seemed to enjoy Fenris’s company as well. He took note of the foods Fenris liked, the shows he laughed at, the banter he enjoyed engaging in. They played cards together and ate most meals in each other’s company, and Hawke was careful of Fenris’s boundaries in a way that only the most observent could be.

“What would you do if you had a chance to settle down somewhere?” Hawke asked, directing Fenris’s attention back to the conversation. “I’d imagine you wouldn’t object to a little vigilante justice work, after all you’d been through. Maybe some light throat-slitting?”

The question was meant to be light-hearted, but Fenris mulled it over thoughtfully. He had never stopped to think much about his future. It seemed a useless exercise when all his energy went into evading Danarius’s minions. Truth be told, his tenuous connections to Hawke and his circle were the closest he’d come to true relationships...ever. It seemed almost out of reach, the idea that he might stay somewhere and take root.

His thoughts flicked back to the voicemail on his phone. What would it be like, to call his sister and invite her to visit him? To welcome her into a little apartment, filled with his things, to eat dinner with her and share little stories of how their days had gone?

“To be honest, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” Fenris admitted after a moment. “My early memories are all of serving Danarius. I’ve never truly had a life to call my own. And ‘former slave’ isn’t the kind of work experience most employers are looking for. I can’t imagine I’d get many calls back.”

Hawke’s bark of laughter was short and light. “I would say that could show them some of your other tricks, but ripping organs out and disabling cars during high-speed chases are pretty limited skills. Maybe you should start with college.”

“There’s an idea.” Fenris agreed, sipping his wine. Hawke’s smile widened; Fenris noticed how white his teeth were, how the laugh lines on his face deepened.

“You’d look good in a pair of glasses. You’ve got that studious look about you.”

After Hawke’s first attempt at flirting had been met in a way that he seemed to dislike, the man had lain off the game for a few days, but eventually picked the thread back up as if nothing had ever happened. Fenris found he enjoyed the banter, enough that he usually responded in turn. It was pleasing to him to think that someone found him worthy of attention, and even better to see what kind of response he could achieve by returning it. But the game had been light, with no expectation of any further commitment.

Perhaps it was the phone laying on the coffee table, or the ceaseless itching in his skin from being cooped up too long, or even the constant nagging in the back of his head that Danarius must be zeroing in on him. But this time, when Fenris turned his gaze to Hawke, he realized that he wasn’t interested in merely exchanging flirtatious comments this time. This time, he wanted more.

Hawke seemed to pick up on the change somehow, and the atmosphere in the room grew thicker somehow, more…charged. They both sat silently for a moment, taking each other in, before Fenris realized that Hawke was deliberately not acting. If Fenris wanted to start something, clearly he would have to make the first move. And Fenris wanted it, so he uncurled from his position on the couch and moved to settle into the space above Hawke’s lap, one knee on either side of the man’s thighs. Hawke said nothing, but he leaned over the arm of the couch to set his beer bottle on the floor carefully.

“This isn’t another one of your attempts at repayment, is it?” Hawke asked as Fenris’s hands settled against the back of the couch, bracketing his face. Fenris leaned in. He was close enough to see the specks of gold in Hawke’s brown eyes, the scar along the bridge of his nose that flushed red when he was exerting himself.

“We’ll save my gratitude for another time.” Fenris said, smiling. Hawke’s eyes slid down to his mouth, and that was all Fenris needed. He leaned forward and closed the gap.

Hawke kissed like he fought - brutally, with teeth and tongue and absolutely no attempt at gentling himself. His lips were rough against Fenris’s, his beard a prickle on Fenris’s face. Fenris nipped at his lower lip and was rewarded with a groan and a pair of large hands splaying across his hips, pulling him down to grind against Hawke’s lap.

A few niggling fears crossed Fenris’s mind as they kissed, but none of them took hold. Hawke’s beard was short and scratchy against his chin in a way that Danarius’s well-waxed monstrosity had never been; the hands on his hips were firm, bruising even, but not cruel. And when Fenris ran his hands down Hawke’s arms, they were warm and muscled under his hands, not sagging or wrinkled. He felt nothing but a tight, hot pressure in his abdomen as Hawke rocked up against him, one that grew as Hawke turned from his lips and scraped his teeth down Fenris’s neck.

They stopped briefly to divest themselves of shirts, but neither bothered suggesting that they transfer their activity to a bed. Instead, Hawke pulled Fenris down with him as he splayed along the length of the couch and ran his hands up Fenris’s back. The position put Fenris in the perfect spot to roll his hips into Hawke’s; the mage groaned again and wrapped his legs around Fenris, pulling him close.

“It’s very distracting to be cooped up with you for weeks on end with no way to relieve myself.” Hawke rumbled as they fumbled at each other. The sentence was punctuated with small sounds as Fenris rubbed a thumb across one dusky nipple. “When you - _ah -_ come into the living room all sweaty and shirtless after your exercises, it’s very hard not to put you up against a wall.”

The thought of Hawke admiring him in those occasions might have once bothered Fenris, but now it only aroused him. Reaching for the seam on Hawke’s jeans, he popped the button and slide his hand under the fabric. The thin cotton covering Hawke’s erection was damp with arousal. Hawke let out a small, needy noise as Fenris pressed down lightly.

“ _Tease.”_ he accused, his own hands sliding under Fenris’s waistband to grab his ass. Fenris responded by pressing harder. Hawke let out a strangled noise and bucked up into him.

“It’s not teasing if I follow through.” Fenris assured him. He lifted himself up at Hawke’s prompting, helping the man to push his pants down his legs and off onto the floor; as soon as they were out of the way, Fenris found himself dragged up Hawke’s body until he was settled on Hawke’s chest. Hawke lifted his head and buried his face in the front of Fenris’s underwear, his breath damp on Fenris’s arousal. He could only let out a weak curse as Hawke mouthed at the tip of his cock through the thin fabric, and buried one hand in the mage’s dark hair, just for something to hold onto.

“I want to suck you.” Hawke said bluntly, his hands pressing on Fenris’s ass to further push them together. “That okay?”

“Has anyone - has anyone ever said _no_ to that?” Fenris said breathlessly in response. His voice caught as Hawke chuckled; the laugh set his chest to rumbling and sent pleasureable vibrations through Fenris’s cock where it was still pressed to Hawke’s mouth.

Hawke didn’t bother removing Fenris’s underwear. He only pushed the waistband down until Fenris’s cock sprang from its prison and the fabric caught under his balls, out of the way. And then Fenris was gripping at the arm of the couch, cursing, as Hawke swallowed him down the best he could with the awkward angle, his mouth sinfully hot where it closed around Fenris’s length. He struggled to keep his hips still, but Hawke’s hands clenched on his ass and drove his hips forward, pushing Fenris’s cock until it hit the back of Hawke’s throat.

Fenris struggled to think of the last time he’d had release, and honestly couldn’t remember. The touch of his own hand had become less and less enticing the longer he’d been on the run, and he didn’t care to find a nameless fuck to enjoy a night with, would that he could even trust them enough to do so. It meant that all of this, from the hands on his skin to the hot mouth around his erection, was far more intense than he was used to.

The flat of Hawke’s tongue pressed up against the bottom of Fenris’s cock and then _rolled._ Fenris bucked, cursing, but Hawke swallowed him again relentlessly. The pace he set was quick, brutal, and before long Fenris found himself blindly wrapping his hand around the base of his cock and squeezing tightly. The painful sensation of forcibly delaying his orgasm made his jaw tighten, but he was able to pull away from Hawke’s mouth without spending prematurely.

Once he had himself under control, he scrambled off the man and they both set about to divesting themselves of the rest of their clothes. Fenris looked up from kicking away his underwear to find Hawke’s eyes traveling the length of his body appreciatively. As much as Fenris tried, he couldn’t keep the lines of lyrium from pulsing lightly.

“Come here. Do they hurt?” Hawke asked, tugging Fenris closer with one hand as he sat up on the couch. Fenris settled himself on Hawke’s lap again and gripped his shoulders tightly. Even just the press of skin was startling. Hawke was broad, and fit, and _warm_ underneath him; so good in so many ways.

“Not - _venhedis.”_ Fenris hissed and collapsed forward as Hawke’s fingers sent a jolt of sensation through the lyrium lines, a spark that made his muscles tense. He dug his fingers into Hawke’s arm in rebuke, and Hawke withdrew his hand, looking apologetic. “Do _not_ do that again.”

“Sorry. I swear it was an accident. Won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Fenris said coldly; but he allowed himself to be pulled forward so that their cocks brushed up against one another, and Hawke could take them both in hand. Hawke spit into his palm and wrapped his fingers around them both, tugging in a slow, but firm way. Fenris fell forward again, thighs trembling at the sensation, and dug his teeth into the meat of Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke’s cock jumped against his.

It was messy, and sloppy, and perfect. Hawke’s palm was rough, and his strokes were just a bit too tight and a bit too slow for Fenris. It made the pleasure rise up with each twist of his hand and then settle again, just slightly too little to tip him over the edge, but enough to keep him gasping, his hands sliding along Hawke’s body and fisting in his hair.

“Kiss me again.” Hawke said. Fenris complied, but he wasn’t able to do much more than groan against Hawke’s mouth as the grip around his length tightened more. Hawke’s other hand brushed his balls, and then pressed up against the space behind them as his rough palm dragged over Fenris’s cock. Fenris gasped and rocked his hips forward, and then he was coming against Hawke’s belly, unable to do more than moan weakly as his orgasm was wrenched out of him. Hawke stroked a few more times, coaxing him through the aftershocks, and then unashamedly scraped Fenris’s release off his own stomach and wrapped his hand back around his own length.

Fenris watched dazedly as Hawke jerked himself with a palm slick with Fenris’s come once, twice, three times, and then he was coming too in great spurts, sounding as if somebody had punched him in the stomach. When the shudders of his cock quieted, he groaned again, weakly this time, and pulled the both of them down to lay on the couch again, Fenris sprawled across Hawke’s chest.

“Why did we wait so long to do that?” Hawke said after a few moments, voice rough. One of his legs wrapped around Fenris’s, his foot sliding down Fenris’s calf as if to get more contact with him. “That was fucking… something else.”

“Lost for words?” Fenris asked. The feel of their sticky stomachs pressing into each other wasn’t exactly comfortable, but the rest of him was boneless and heavy. His head had fuzzed in a pleasant way, and Fenris realized he was fast approaching the point where he would fall asleep just like this, naked and covered in spend on top of another man. Hawke didn’t seem too far behind him.

“I was going to try to make a joke, but it’s not worth the effort.” Hawke answered. One of his arms slipped around Fenris’s waist; heavy, but not possessive. It was startling, how easy all this was. Were Fenris more capable of rational thought, he might have been concerned at how _not_ concerned he was. “Is it an option to just sleep right here? You make a good blanket.”

“And you’re a space heater in human form.” Fenris shot back, without a hint of sharpness. Hawke replied, but Fenris’s eyes were already closed, and he was too sleepy to make out the words.

\--

_“Oh, Tareth,” Geranna said breathlessly, her bosom heaving as his golden locks skimmed her belly. He looked up at her, his eyes burning with some nameless emotion, before he lowered himself and buried his head in her sweet -_

“Are people really going to read this shit?” Varric muttered to himself, flicking the pen down and curling his hand around the tumbler of whiskey on his desk instead. _Heaving bosoms._ What was his publisher thinking?

“What happened to good old high fantasy?” he announced to the empty room. The whiskey burned pleasantly on the way down and pooled in his belly warmly. “Something with dragons. The end of the world. People eat that stuff up.”

The room didn’t answer, but Varric did hear the ghost of his publisher in his ear, nagging him about the deadline he had coming up next month. He didn’t really _need_ to publish a new book anytime soon, but if he didn’t, his she would call him for a week straight. Sighing, Varric set the whiskey down and picked up his pen.

Had he been engrossed in writing, he might not have reacted swiftly enough when the door flew open and cracked against the wall. Varric was already ducking under his desk when the first gunshot rang out. The next few hit the front of his heavy oak desk; thick as it was, it held under the assault, and no bullets pierced through. Varric knelt and wedged Bianca’s barrel under the gap between the desk and the floor, took an educated guess about the angle, and pulled the trigger. He was pleasantly surprised to hear a strangled gasp from the doorway.

Shoving the chair out of the way, Varric glanced around the edge of the desk and grinned. His visitor’s shirt was red at the shoulder, and she was holding her pistol awkwardly in her left hand. Varric quickly took aim and pulled the trigger. The woman collapsed, a neat hole in between her eyes.

He was bellying up to the doorway when the next gunman appeared. He attempted to snake his hand around the door jamb to aim at Varric; Varric grabbed his forearm, twisted, and heard the bone snap. The man screamed as Varric pulled him in by the broken limb. Varric held him as he pressed Bianca to the man’s temple and fired.

The three in the living room were more of a pain in the ass than the previous two. Varric took one out with a well-placed throw of a bowl, followed by a shot to the chest. He caught the other in the leg and then the throat. The last he grabbed by the collar, spun and slammed into the wall; the man reared back, fire flickering at his fingertips, and tried to grab Varric’s face. His hand hissed as it hit a painting instead. The room filled with the smell of burnt canvas as Varric slammed him into the wall again, dug Bianca into his ribs, and pulled the trigger. The man collapsed; Varric shot him in the head just to be safe, and then skimmed the room for any more threats.

There was blood all over the carpet and several of the kitchen cabinets. The painting was a total loss. Shards of ceramic from the bowl littered the ground. And Varric was bleeding from a scrape on his bicep and covered in blood. Grimacing, he pulled the shirt off, threw it on the floor, and trudged back to his study to find his phone.

\--

Though he really had no intentions of it, Fenris woke up a few hours later tucked between Hawke’s body and the back of the couch, his head pillowed on Hawke’s shoulder and Hawke’s hip pressing into his insistently full bladder. His head was muddled, as if full of cotton. Quietly, he peeled himself off the slumbering man and padded into the bathroom to relieve himself.

He’d had a dream about - something? The visions were muddled in his head, slipping away as he tried to grasp at them.

He saw - a child’s face. A young girl, with bright copper hair. Her voice was light, sweet, but it reminded him -

_You’ll always be my brother, Leto._

Fenris jerked, nearly slipping on the slick bathroom floor. Cursing, he staggered to the sink to wash his face, but could only grip the edges of the sink top as more memories assaulted him.

_An older couple, smiling. His forehead, pressed to the dirt, a boot on his neck. Days too long, too hard, his father collapsing one afternoon, taking sick, never getting back up. The sense of pain, overwhelming pain, ripping his body apart -_

The crash of something against the tile, shattering into a thousand pieces, brought him back to himself. He had thrown the glass next to the sink faucet against the wall. The pieces were scattered across the floor, reflecting the harsh glow of the overhead light into his eyes. His markings were lit up as well, adding to the blinding light.

Fenris gasped and bent over the sink. His hands wrapped around the cold ceramic and gripped hard as he squeezed his eyes shut. His body was on _fire._ It chased the memories from his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring them back. All he knew that that he had _remembered,_ and now he could not.

\--

Hawke pushed the door to his bedroom open. The inside was dim, lit only by a candle flickering on the bedside table. Did he have a candle? Hawke didn’t remember ever in his life having a candle, even when Leandra was still alive.

“Master.” came a quiet voice. Hawke looked over at the bed and froze, eyebrows raising far enough to touch his hairline.

The form stretched out on top of his comforter was familiar. Hawke’s eyes traced down from his white-blonde hair, past the pale markings swirling across his naked chest, and stopped on the impressive erection curled up towards his belly.

Fenris tugged on the leather cuffs chaining his hands to the headboard and spread his knees further apart, as if offering up what was between them. His eyes were half-closed, sultry; his lips parted as he let out a small moan and rocked his hips.

“Seriously?” Hawke said bluntly. “You think _this_ is what’s going to get me to give in? I liked the one about being the Supreme Ruler of Thedas better.”

The demon sat up, and its form melted and blurred. When it resolidified, it was no longer Fenris looking at him, but a woman with high cheekbones and grey hair falling softly around her face. Hawke felt his next statement wither and die on his lips as he looked into the eyes of his dead mother.

“Garrett? What are you doing awake, dear?” the demon wearing Leandra’s face said, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Another nightmare, is it? Why don’t you come lie next to me, and we’ll read a while?”

Hawke felt the blood boil in his veins, but he bit his lower lip, _hard,_ and refused to answer. He could almost feel the demon laughing at him as it took in his change in demeanor. How _dare_ it speak with her voice, wear her face? Though the Leandra before him was smiling, and softened with tiredness, all he could picture was the gaunt woman he’d held in his arms three years ago as the light had left her eyes. That bloodmage had torn her apart and reassembled her like a doll, and Leandra had died with the wrong body, the wrong hands, the wrong _everything._ This monster had no right to act as if none of that had ever happened.

The demon’s form shifted again. Back into Fenris this time, but this Fenris was sleepy-eyed and smiling slightly. It rubbed at one eye and yawned before looking back at Hawke.

“Are you coming back to bed? We don’t need to be up for a while yet.” the demon said, patting the mattress next to it. “Wouldn’t you like to curl up with me, Hawke, and fall back asleep? You could wake up every morning next to somebody that loved you, that _adored_ you. Fenris would never leave you. Fenris would never be _taken_ from you. You’d be together for the rest of your days.”

A sharp sound pierced his ears, and the dream dissipated into nothingness in an instant. Hawke awoke alone, in the living room, totally naked and not anywhere close to being in his bedroom with his dead mother. He stumbled to his feet, nearly feel forward into the coffee table, but caught himself at the last moment and straightened up.

Something was buzzing. Hawke looked over at the coffee table and realized his phone was vibrating against the wooden top, the screen a bright white in the dimness of the room. Cursing, Hawke fumbled for it and managed to answer just before the call dropped.

“Merrill?” Hawke muttered questioningly when he check the number. She shouldn’t have had this number. The gravity of that thought settled into his chest as he answered the call.

“Hawke?” came her uncertain voice across the line. “Are you there? Can you hear me? I’m sorry to bother you - I’m aware that you’re supposed to be hiding right now, only Varric told me that I should call, so I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

Hawke saw Fenris emerge from the bathroom in the corner of his eye. He looked pale, tired, and angry. “No, nothing. Merrill, is something wrong?”

“Oh, no!” Merill answered cheerfully. Hawke waited for the explanation, because Merrill’s idea of wrong and most other people’s were very different. “It’s only that - you know that I go to see Varric every Wednesday, only this week Isabela and I were going to see a movie so I called to tell Varric perhaps we could reschedule, but then I got a bit worried because he didn’t answer, you know how unusual that is for him -” Merrill’s voice was becoming increasingly panicked. “So I asked Isabela if we could just drop by, and then he didn’t answer the door so we went inside -”

Merrill cut off for a moment, and Hawke heard something shuffle in the background. There was the sound of Isabela’s voice, and then more shuffling.

“Hawke.” came Isabela’s curt voice over the phone. “Varric was attacked. He’s fine, but there’s a whole mess of dead Vints in here and we need to have a pow-wow about it. Can you meet us?”

 _Shit._ Hawke glanced at Fenris, who was watching him intently.

“Yeah. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

\--

Varric was examining the blood spatter on his living room carpet, wondering if the rug was salvageable, when Hawke and his ward strode into his place. Hawke gave Merrill a quick one-armed hug and nodded to Isabela; Fenris’s eyes flicked immediately to the three bodies lined up neatly on the kitchen tile and then to Varric. He zeroed in on the red spatters on Varric’s forearms and frowned.

“Broody. Jack. Sorry about the mess, I’ve had some rowdy guests today.”

“There’s two more in the bedroom.” Isabela piped up. She’d whirled in like the devil himself, chided him for worrying them, and then set to drinking her way through his most expensive bottle of brandy. It was always nice to have her over. “There’s no contract on them, but Varric went through their phones. They’re Caelius’s lackeys.”

Varric watched Fenris’s mouth press into a hard line. Crossing to the bodies, he knelt next the closest one and examined his face. Poor kid. Merrill gravitated to him, a tentatively friendly expression on her face, and made a comment that Varric couldn’t hear but knew was likely both well-intentioned and inappropriate.

“They’re getting a bit too big for their britches, Hawke. We’re going to have to address this problem. You have any ideas?” Varric said, turning to his friend. Hawke was watching Fenris with a strange expression on his face. He didn’t respond to Varric’s question.

Oh no. _No._ Varric knew that stupidly besotted expression. Hawke didn’t fall easy, but he fell _hard._ And if Varric were to put his money on what would be most likely to attract him, it would be a prickly, sour-faced criminal with a mess of personal issues. Hawke had a little bit of a hero complex like that. And it was just like him to grow feelings in the middle of a dangerous and sensitive operation.

It was enough to drive a dwarf to drink, if he hadn’t already committed to that decades ago.

“HAWKE.” Hawke started and turned to Varric. He grinned easily at Varric’s raised eyebrow, but his cheekbones flushed slightly. He knew he was caught, then. Good on him for feeling _some_ shame.  “Stop worrying about your lady love and help me find a way to fix this.”

Hawke’s brows drew together. “My la-?! No, you know what, that doesn’t deserve attention. You’re right, we need an action plan. What do we know?”

What a question. Varric motioned Hawke over to the kitchen bar where Rivaini was sitting, and snatched a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. Hawke accepted the glass Varric handed him and downed the liquid inside like a man in the desert did water. Varric did the same, then topped them both off again.

“We know that Caelius has both you and me pegged for helping Broody there. But I’d say, considering he sent his welcome wagon to my doorstep and not yours, he doesn’t have your hiding place pinned down just yet. Red’s pretty certain that Caelius knows our friend was picked up and released by the station. And if they make that information public...well. It wouldn’t be good for anybody.”

“So we’re on a limited time line here.” Isabela agreed.

“Yeah. It might be time to think about getting Broody out of the city completely. Maybe ourselves too, unless you like the uptick in home visits.”

“I would not have you throw away what you have built here on my account.” Fenris interjected, appearing at the counter with Merrill in tow. His phone was clutched in his hand; Varric saw his eyes flick down to the whiskey bottle, so Varric pulled out another glass and proffered them to the elf silently. Fenris’s look was grateful.

“You keep talking about this as if it’s your fault somehow, Broody.” Varric said easily, sipping at his glass. “Nobody here blames you for making the best of a bad situation. I for one would have some trouble sleeping at night if the City Guard had turned you over to Tevinter, and if we hadn’t, we’d still be getting night-time visits whether you were here or not.”

“That does not change the fact that your lives have been endangered by me.” Fenris said, the tone of his voice a bit sour.

Hawke’s hand moved to settle on Fenris’s shoulder. It dropped away when Fenris flinched under the touch, and Hawke’s expression flickered to hurt, then smoothed out.  

Oh, _that_ was interesting. Clearly, something had happened, and not something good.

He should have known better than to let Hawke coop himself up with an elf that would push all the right buttons, but he hadn’t really been thinking the whole thing through at the time. And had Hawke forgotten how the elf had put his _entire hand in his chest?_ That wasn’t exactly good first-date etiquette. But once Hawke decided he liked someone, there was nothing to be done about it. If the person in question wasn’t so tangled up in the ministrations of a ruthless Tevinter Magister that had just tried to kill him, Varric might have been a bit more sympathetic.

“I need to make some phone calls, and you two shouldn’t be out like this longer than you need to be. Will you be alright wherever you are for a few more days? I’ll get back to you on a timeline about getting out of the city.”

Hawke nodded, slammed the rest of his whiskey, and got up. He looked at Fenris expectantly, but the elf turned away from him and looked at Varric instead.

“I’d like to speak in private to Tethras, if possible.” he said. Varric and Hawke met eyes; Hawke, standing behind Fenris, shrugged one shoulder slightly, as if to say, _I have no idea what this is about._

“...sure, Broody. Follow me. We’ll talk in my study.”

\--

Fenris couldn’t help but glance at his phone one more time as Varric led him down the hallway to his study. Most of the words on the screen were gibberish to him, but he could pick out two, and those two were all he needed.

 _Here._ And _please._

At the end of the text was a block of text he could recognize from form alone as an address; it led to a place in Kirkwall’s Darktown, a dive bar that Fenris’s lip curled to think of his sister patronizing.

Fenris knew down to his bones that it was most likely a trap. But he couldn’t let this chance pass by without at least trying, and he was out of time. If this truly was his sister - if she was _here -_ he would regret not going to her for the rest of his days. But he would do it smartly, with backup, and in a way that didn’t put Hawke or any of his friends at any more risk than he’d already done.

Varric led them into a richly-decorated room with a thick oak desk in the middle of it, a laptop and several stacks of papers and envelopes piled neatly on it. Varric had to step over a body to reach the chair behind the desk; the front of the piece of furniture was flecked with bullet holes. He did so casually, as if it was something that happened to him every day.

“Now, what’s this about, Broody? You don’t have to be shy about wanting my autograph, you know.”

Fenris took a seat in the chair not stained with blood. Varric was leaning forward in his chair, elbows planted on the desk; his stance looked much more casual than the careful gleam in his eye did. Fenris was reminded once again that this dwarf, wearing a pair of black pajama that would feed a whole family for a month and no shirt, was one of the most dangerous men in Kirkwall.

“I understand that you have ties to the Champion of Kirkwall.” Fenris said bluntly, before he could lose the nerve. “I would ask that you put me in contact with him.”

Whatever Varric had been expecting, that wasn’t it. His eyebrows nearly rose into his hairline before he got control of them, but even then his expression was confused.

“Yeah, I do, and I’ll give it to you if you want it, but… why?” Varric asked slowly. Fenris mused over how much to say for a moment before opening his mouth.

“I have seen his actions and I would ask a favor of him. One that I cannot ask of you or Hawke. I cannot say more than that.”

“Alright.” Varric said simply. “Give me your phone.”

Fenris passed it over, a little thrown off balance by how quickly Varric had agreed. He had expected many more questions from the dwarf. Ties to somebody like the Champion had to be costly; Fenris had expected to need to offer something in return, at the very least, for the privilege of the information. But Varric simply handed him the phone back with a number saved in the contact list.

“That’s his number there. You can leave him a voicemail, but he only answers by text. It’s a security thing.” Varric frowned and leaned forward slightly, his eyes on Fenris. “Broody, you know that whatever this is, you can trust me or Hawke with it.”

 _You and I both know,_ Fenris thought, _That I don’t fully trust you, and for very good reasons. And maybe that is why you gave me this with no further questions._

“I am in your debt.” Fenris said honestly, pocketing his phone and pushing to his feet. “I will repay this favour one day, when I have the chance.”

Varric’s grin was wide, but there was something strained about the edges, as was there in his voice as he replied.

“Don’t worry about it, Broody. You’ve kept Hawke mostly out of trouble for almost a full month. That’s a favour in and of itself. Be safe driving home. Call if you need anything.”

\--

The text Hawke got from Varric as they were driving home was short and to the point.

_Broody is up to something. He wanted the Champion’s help. Call me when you’re alone._

\--

Fenris was halfway to his room when a touch to his shoulder stopped his progress.

 _Fasta vass._ He knew he wasn’t going to be able to get away without having this talk.

The irritation in the thought was enough to make him twitch under the palm resting on his shoulder. Hawke immediately withdrew his hand and stepped back out of Fenris’s space. Some emotion flickered over his face, but it was gone before Fenris could make out what it was, and replaced with blankness.

“Everything alright, Fenris?” Hawke asked softly. Fenris knew what he was really asking, under the carefully vague question.

Fenris’s phone was a heavy weight in his pocket as he looked back at Hawke. He took in Hawke’s broad shoulders, his strong jaw and his expressive brown eyes. Fenris felt pulled in several directions at once. An insistent tug in the depths of his abdomen that whispered to him to wrap his hand around Hawke’s back and pull him close. A dark sizzle in his chest that warned him not to be deceived by a kind voice or a pretty face. An illy-disguised fear of what might happen tonight, if things went wrong. A pang of shame, that he might be about to hurt and then abandon a man who could be just as good-hearted as he appeared.

The feelings were all wrapped around each other in a dizzying way, and he could not tease them apart. He and Hawke were not close, not really, but they had - something. Fenris wanted to find out what that something was. Fenris wanted to cut and run before Hawke could turn the tables on him.

Hawke liked him. Hawke was deceiving him. Hawke deserved to be freed of his responsibility to Fenris. Hawke couldn’t be trusted. Hawke was a good man. Hawke was a criminal.

What was the truth?

“If this is about last night,” Fenris said, as bluntly as he could, “I do not wish to lead you on. I am not looking for a relationship, and I don’t want to repeat the experience.”

 _Liar,_ his gut said. _You could love this man. You’re just afraid to find out what will happen if you do._

The words deflated something in Hawke. HIs shoulders hunched forward defensively in a way Fenris had never seen before, and he smiled in a small, mournful way.

“It was that bad, huh?” he said, scratching at his cheek. “If it’s made things weird for you, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t stay here or anything.”

So selfless, Fenris thought irritably. The conflicting thoughts in his head made it difficult to keep the charade up, but just then his phone vibrated, and Fenris’s resolve strengthened.

“You’ve been very kind to me.” he said carefully. “And I thank you for that, but last night was a mistake. One that won’t happen again.”

Hawke’s flinch at the word ‘mistake’ hit Fenris like a sledgehammer blow. It was hard to believe anybody could feign that level of emotion. The man in front of him smiled lopsidedly again, and Fenris could practically see him struggling to put himself back together.

It was too much. Fenris turned on his heel and disappeared into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Inside the safety of his room, he turned and pressed his forehead against the door, letting out a long breath. It had been late in the evening when they’d made it to Varric’s; now it was by all accounts early morning, and Fenris was tired. It was several more before he could anchor himself enough to focus on the task at hand. Reaching into his pocket, Fenris pulled his phone out and pressed the voicemail icon on the screen.

“ _Leto, it’s Varania. If you’re going to come, you must do it tonight. I can’t stay any longer.”_ the voice on the phone stopped for a moment. When it started up again, it was much more urgent. “ _Please, Leto, I just want to see you, even if it’s for only five minutes. If you decide to leave again, then…. Then that’s okay. But let me see you, let me see that you’re alive, and that you’re okay. I’ll be at the address I sent you. Please come.”_

The voicemail clicked off. Fenris inhaled, exhaled, and did his very best not to throw the phone across the room. When he was under control again, he brought up the number Varric had left him and called it. It went straight to voicemail, nothing but a short beep before the recording started.

“Champion,” Fenris said carefully. “I was given your number by a mutual contact. I need your services, if you’re willing to help me. My sister has contacted me and asked me to meet her at an address in Kirkwall tonight, but I’m afraid it may be a ploy to take me back to my former master in Tevinter. I can’t offer much in return right now, but… I will find a way to repay you. I swear it. I will forward the address and a time.”

Fenris ended the message, opened Varania’s text, and scrolled up to copy the address. Once it was forwarded with a time to the Champion, all there was left to do was wait. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long.

He had never been so frustrated by his shortcomings as he was in that moment, staring at three simple words and unable to comprehend what they meant. Growling in frustration, Fenris navigated to his text-to-voice option and turned it on. He listened, every muscle tensed, as the robotic voice read the text back to him.

“I’ll be there.”

Fenris exhaled, and sagged against the wall.

\--

The district that the bar was in was dangerous, even by Darktown’s standards. Dangerous enough that the cab driver refused to drive him all the way there. Fenris was forced to walk six blocks through the streets to get to the bar, and though he wasn’t concerned about his ability to defend himself, the looks he got from the groups of men hanging out on the street and skulking in the alleyways only added to his nerves.

Thoughts flicked through his mind at lightning speed as he navigated the cracked sidewalk. What if it was a trap? What if the Champion didn’t show? What if the Champion wasn’t as good as his reputation suggested? And if it wasn’t a trap, if it really was Varania? How would she feel about her beloved brother now, a broken man that had nothing to offer her? Fenris imagined her taking him in at their first meeting, imagined a look of revulsion on her face. It hurt far more than he wished it to.

He’d managed to sleep a few hours after they’d come back from Varric’s, but by mid-morning, he was up and unable to do much but pace back and forth, thinking about what was to come. Hawke had shut himself up inside his room and did not come out; Fenris had expected to need to sneak out of the apartment to set his plan in action, but the combined living room/kitchen was empty as he made his way to the front door, and he ended up just walking out.

It had rained earlier in the evening; the dirty streets were still soaked with rainwater. Trash littered the ground and clogged up the alleyways, the bags torn open and spilling. Cockroaches nearly as long as Fenris’s fingers scuttled back and forth. The buildings were old and tired, sagging against each other as their faces crumbled away. Many of them were missing window glass or had bars over the doorways.

The only hint that the bar existed was a neon sign, half-dark, above the door, which was firmly shut. The place had no windows. Fenris wanted to take a moment to gather himself, but a group of humans on the other side of the building was eyeing him in a chilling way, and the last thing he wanted if his sister was really inside was to get into a fight right before he saw her. So he took the time for one deep breath and wrapped his hand around the door handle.

The inside of the bar was as damp and musty as the street had been, and much darker. It was half-full, mostly human men, and the atmosphere was quieter than he’d expected. The few near the door looked up as he entered but then looked away just as quickly. The bartender turned his way and gestured him over, but Fenris ignored him and scanned the tables instead.

His eyes fell on a slight figure facing away from him with a pile of bright copper hair on her head. Then she turned, and as Fenris’s eyes fell on her face, he _knew._

Images flashed before his eyes - _a girl a few years older than him, giggling, running through a courtyard. Sitting across from her at a table, her tongue sticking out at him. Perched on the edge of his bed, her voice cheerful as she told him a silly story and then kissed his temple._

Varania. There was no doubt that the woman sitting in that chair was her. It wasn’t a trap. She was really here.

Fenris found himself moving forward as if in a daze; he no longer swept the room for danger, no longer worried about what was happening around him. His feet carried him forward, and he was helpless to obey.

She looked up as he approached, but didn’t stand. Even as close as he was now, it was hard to make her face out in the gloom of the bar, but she didn’t smile. She looked as conflicted as he felt in that moment; they stared at each other for several moments before she glanced away and down at her hands.

“It really is you.” she said quietly. “Leto.”

She stood finally, but didn’t move towards him. Rather, she moved back and away from the table. Fenris reflexively took a step forward, but Varania turned her face away from him and stepped further away. Fenris saw movement from the corner of his eye and whirled around. The other patrons of the bar were all standing, and a figure flanked by two others was making his way through the crowd towards him.

“My little Fenris.” an amused voice called to him. Fenris’s body went cold all over.

The man that came strolling towards him was as familiar as the back of Fenris’s hand. Fenris recognized the steel gray of his hair, the confidence in his gait, even the robes he wore. He knew how long it took to polish the staff he had slung over his back. Fenris knew the noises he made in the bedroom, the way he laughed when Fenris killed someone for him, the careful scrawl of his notes as he studied his latest specimen. Fenris knew everything about Danarius Caelius, and it took every shred of discipline he had not to fall to his knees in supplication as Danarius’s eyes lit upon his face. Fenris hated himself for that, even more than he hated the man in front of him.

“Predictable as always.” Danarius said, a little smile on his face as he approached. Fenris saw Varania turn back towards him and bow her head. Her hands were buried in the front of the skirt she wore, grasping so tight her knuckles were white.

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto.” she said softly.

He had never expected this outcome. He had _expected_ a trap, that the woman on the phone was just a stranger hired to lure him in before Danarius struck. He had _hoped_ that he would walk in and see his sister, that he would be able to embrace her and kiss her cheek and take her away somewhere, the two of them, a family. But he had never… this was…

“You _led him here.”_ he hissed. Just as his feet had moved him mindlessly towards her before, they did so now. But his hands, which had ached to touch, to embrace, now only wished to bury themselves in her chest. Varania flinched backwards and looked away, her hands twisting the fabric trapped in them.

“Now, now, Fenris, don’t blame your sister.” Danarius said lightly, catching Fenris’s attention once more. His expression was amused, even _fond._ It made Fenris’s stomach roil in disgust, to see that expression turned towards him. “She did what any good Imperial citizen would do.”

There they stood, next to each other. That Varania would… that she… Fenris couldn’t think about it. He shoved the whole thing down and away and turned to the situation at hand. But the anger had taken hold of him and grew exponentially second by second as he took in Danarius’s smirking face. It was all he could do not to stride forward and bury his hand in the man’s throat.

Behind them, the door flew open, catching everyone’s attention. Fenris glanced to the side, but didn’t turn around; he didn’t dare take his eyes off Danarius. Though Danarius’s smirk morphed into a thoughtful frown as he eyed whoever had strolled through the door, telling Fenris that whoever it was, it wasn’t one of his lackeys.

The voice, clearly only a few feet away, said, “Now here’s an interesting party.”

It couldn’t be. And yet, when Fenris turned, it was Hawke standing behind him, his shoulders relaxed and his face pleasantly neutral as he took in the surroundings. He was wearing the same clothes he had been earlier, plus his leather jacket. How had he found out? Fenris had _checked,_ dammit, he’d left no trace of where he was going, and yet clearly he was wrong, because here Hawke stood.

“Garrett Hawke, yes?” Danarius asked. Hawke bowed flippantly, his eyes never straying towards Fenris.

“I came to see what my ward was up to. He snuck off without telling me, you know.” Hawke said to Danarius. “You must be Magister Caelius.”

It was as if Fenris was trapped in a dream that only got more horrible as time went by. How could his sister be involved with Danarius? How could Hawke be here, introducing himself, _conversing_ with his former master? Fenris wanted to pinch himself to see if he’d wake, but he’d tried that enough times in his youth to know his dreams were always sweeter than reality. This was no imagining.

All that was left was to hope that the Champion would show up. That was the only thing that would save this. But if he didn’t?

“You’re Fenris’s former master? I assume you’re here to take him back.” Hawke said lightly. The words floated through Fenris’s awareness but didn’t catch.

Fenris had to get control of this situation. But they were surrounded. If he attacked Danarius, Hawke or Varania - or both - would be killed. Could he get them to safety, and then kill Danarius?

“You assume correctly. Are you here to stop me?”

Could they escape? Or simply hold out until the Champion showed up? What happened if the Champion _didn’t_ show? Fenris had to assume they were on their own. He had made a mistake by trusting an outside force. That was the only conclusion he could come to. He’d put his faith in somebody that hadn’t come through, and now he was paying the consequences. But he could still fix the situation. If only he could think _how…._

“No.” Hawke said with a shrug. Fenris’s attention snapped back to the conversation. “If you want him, he’s yours.”

Fenris had thought the world had gone sideways before. Clearly, he suffered from a lack of imagination.

Hawke was giving him away.

Hawke was _here._ And Hawke was _giving him away._

“ _What?”_ the word burst forth from Fenris’s chest as if it had been pulled from him. Hawke didn’t so much as grace him with a look. His eyes were fixed on Danarius.

“But I expect something in return.” Hawke added. Each word hit Fenris like a hammer.

Fenris had told himself he didn’t trust Hawke, that on some level he expected betrayal. But if he had, it wouldn’t feel like the air was being sucked from his lungs right now. He wouldn’t be looking at Hawke’s face, his deep brown eyes, his generous mouth, and feeling so shocked. Perhaps this is what his enemies had felt like when he’d ripped their hearts from their chests.

 _Fasta vass._ He really had trusted Hawke. And Hawke was betraying him without so much as an ounce of shame.

Danarius was saying something now about payment, but Fenris couldn’t find it in himself to pay attention to it. His eyes were glued to Hawke’s face, watching the ease of his expression, the casual line of his shoulders, the way he dismissed Fenris’s presence as if he were nothing but a…

...but a slave.

“Hawke,” he said suddenly, his voice small. “Hawke, don’t do this.”

Hawke glanced at him, and then glanced away. “You’re on your own, Fenris.”

If there was anything left in him that clung to his anger, it shriveled and died then. Fenris’s head bowed, as it had not down in almost four years. He turned to Danarius and moved forward at the wave of his hand, his eyes trained on the floor. The other habits slipped back over his form like a well-worn coat, and the pain in his chest deadened and disappeared as it had so many times before, leaving him numb and empty. He could not express his emotion here. He must first serve his master, and then later, when he was alone, he would perhaps have some time to feel.

And then, Fenris was being thrown to the ground as the door to the bar slammed open again, much harder this time. It was echoed by the sound of a door in the back of the bar, and the sound of a dozen pairs of feet moving. Danarius’s lackeys shuffled around him, pulling guns or raising staffs, and Danarius himself pulled his staff from his back and shifted backwards a few steps, but stopped.

“Kirkwall City Guard, drop the weapons and get on the ground!”

Fenris pushed at the body on top of him and it shifted enough that he could see. A dozen men and women in blue uniforms had streamed through the front entrance, the one in the front sporting bright copper hair. To the back of the bar were a dozen more. All had pistols trained on the men in the bar. Danarius glanced back and forth between them, his staff still raised.

“Danarius Caelius, you are under arrest on charges of human trafficking and murder. Drop your weapon.” Aveline shouted. A familiar light bloomed at the tips of Danarius’s fingers; Fenris pushed the body on top of him away and stumbled towards his former master.

He reached Danarius just as his arm shot up to channel the spell. The ball of flame went wide, smacking into the wall and harming no one; Fenris tackled him and they both fell to the ground as shots rang out through the bar. Fenris could feel as Danarius yanked on the markings to pull up a barrier around the two of them. It absorbed several bullets, which dropped to the ground harmlessly.

Around them, the bar had eruped into chaos. The air was full of the sound of of gunshots and screaming. Mages threw fire, lightning, and ice, or wheezed as they were silenced by Templar-trained guards. Danarius’s men were kicking tables over, shooting at the guards, or dropping as bullets lodged in them. Hawke had grabbed Varania and erected a barrier of his own. Fenris could no longer see Aveline over the crush of bodies in the way.

He twisted, trying to pull on his markings and reach Danarius’s chest, but Danarius growled and _ripped_ at the markings. Fenris could do no more than howl and curl into himself as the markings flared white-hot and sizzled against his skin. But Danarius could not pull on the markings and keep his barrier up at the same time; the greenish bubble dropped and the man was forced to drag them backwards towards the safety of an overturned table. Fenris felt something thunk into his arm, but he was too busy with the pain of the markings to know if it was a bullet or something else.

Around them, Danarius’s men were falling like flies, though Fenris could see a few guards on the floor as well. The pain in his markings faded as Danarius stopped pulling on them and turned his magic back to the barrier. Then something in the air _shifted, and_ Danarius stiffened and his breath stopped short. Fenris could feel Danarius pull on his markings, but everything he dragged from the lyrium lines slipped away as soon as it left Fenris’s flesh and disappeared. Across the room, a guard with a Templar symbol on his uniform had his arm stretched out towards them.

The magister glanced around wildly, but there was nowhere to run to. Growling, Danarius stood and dropped his staff; instead, his arm slipped around Fenris’s shoulders and yanked him to his front. His other hand rose and pressed a pistol against Fenris’s temple.

“Stop, or I shoot him.” he called out.

The activity in the room took a few moments to die down, but eventually, the men and women still standing the room turned their eyes to Fenris and Danarius. Aveline was down on one knee, her thigh dark with blood. To his left, Varania was cowering behind a cluster of overturned chairs. Hawke had his staff in one hand and his pistol in the other.

With the pain of the markings dying down, Fenris could feel the throbbing in his arm. A bullet, then. Danarius was trembling against him, the barrel of the pistol pushed into his temple much harder than it needed to be. He had to know he was outnumbered and outgunned. He stank of sweat and the sour scent of fear.

“Drop the weapon and release the hostage.” Aveline called harshly. If she was in pain, her voice didn’t show it.

The tremor in Danarius’s body behind Fenris intensified. Fenris shifted his arm; it throbbed, but wasn’t totally useless.

He slammed his right arm up, knocking the gun away from his temple. Fenris could practically feel the wind from the bullet rip through his hair as he turned and pulled on the markings. It was little enough work for his left hand to curl up and slip through Danarius’s ribs. He had no time to savor the moment, or even to think it through; he clenched his fist, gritting at the pain in his arm, and felt the heart in his palm pop like an overripe tomato. Danarius’s eyes went wide. Then he slumped to the ground, Fenris’s curled fist slipping from his chest cavity with a wet ‘pop’. Besides the thump of Danarius’s body, the room was silent.

Fenris fell to his knees, clutching his burning arm, and activity surged again around him. He saw from the corner of his eye a pair of Danarius’s men lay down their weapons from the corner of his eye. A guard approached them as they lay prone on the floor and kneeled to pat them down. Fenris spared them no attention; his eyes were trained on the body of his former master. Thoughts rose and feel as his gaze swept over his glassy eyes, his punctured chest, his bloodstained robes, but none of them fully formed before falling away.

It must have been several minutes before something pulled him from his reverie. Fenris only barely noticed the movement at his side, mostly because it cast a shadow over the body before him. Then the someone knelt, though they didn’t reach out to him.

“Fenris.” a voice said quietly.

Hawke.

Fenris whirled, a snarl already on his lips.

“ _Don’t.”_ he hissed. His markings went a blinding white, sending jolts of pain through his still-sensitive body, but it wasn’t nearly enough to distract Fenris from the matter at hand. “Don’t say a word, _Hawke.”_

Hawke closed his mouth and just knelt there. His hand, resting on his bent knee, twitched but didn’t move.

Fenris’s mind flashed over the events, trying to make sense of what had happened. Hawke had shown up, _somehow._ And then - he’d offered Fenris to Danarius, but then - but then Aveline and the guard had showed up? That was not a coincidence. It couldn’t be. And where was the Champion?

Oh.

_Oh._

“You’re the Champion of Kirkwall.” Fenris said, dumbfounded. Hawke’s mouth curled up slightly at one end, and he nodded.

“I wanted to tell you,” Hawke said carefully, “But you didn’t leave me much chance. Two hours isn’t nearly enough time to marshal the entire city guard and come up with a plan to keep you from being dragged back to Tevinter, and I was scared if you found out you wouldn’t let me help you. It was obvious you didn’t trust Hawke.”

“That’s not-” _true,_ he didn’t finish. Because it was, and it wasn’t. _Venhedis,_ he didn’t know what was true. This was too much. Danarius was dead at his feet, and he couldn’t even _enjoy it._

Both of them fell silent at the approach of Donnic, who took one look at Fenris’s bloody arm and offered his hand. His face was blessedly blank.

“There’s ambulances outside. You’ll need to get that looked at.” he said simply. “Hawke, you hurt?”

Fenris didn’t accept the hand. Donnic took no offense and just dropped it to his side, turning his attention to Hawke, who shook his head and stood up as well. They followed Donnic silently through the bodies to the door of the bar. Aveline was just outside, being loaded onto a stretcher. Her language during the process was far more colourful than Fenris had ever heard at the station. Donnic paused to clap her shoulder awkwardly and kept moving.

Halfway to the ambulance they were waylaid by Varric, who had the dark-skinned woman Isabela and the Dalish elf that had chattered in Fenris’s ear at Varric’s apartment in tow. Varric hissed in sympathy when he caught sight of Fenris’s arm. Merrill moved to his side and cooed over it, but scuttled back when Fenris snatched it away from her questing fingertips, and didn’t try to touch him any further.

“Glad to see you both alive.” Varric said, after he had finished giving Hawke a strong enough hug to squeeze a grunt from the man. “You had us worried, Broody. Next time you have a half-baked scheme in mind, at least tell us about it.”

“Like you told me about the Champion?” Fenris said coldly. Varric had the decency to look chastised by that, and backed away so they could keep walking towards the ambulance. Fenris didn’t know whether he hoped Hawke would stay with his friends or come with him, but the man shadowed him all the way to the clutches of a healer mage. The mage immediately directed him to a stretcher and forced him up on it so she could peel the fabric away from the hole in Fenris’s arm.

“We’ll get you loaded up and to the hospital. The bullet’s still in there, so it’ll have to be extracted. Your, uh… friend… can meet us there, if he likes?” the mage’s stutter told Fenris that she knew at least a little of who Hawke was, but Hawke paid her no attention. His eyes were trained on Fenris.

“Yeah, we’ll meet him there.” he said. “Take good care of him.”

And then Fenris was being loaded up in the back of the ambulance and the mage was fussing with the medical equipment to take his vitals. Hawke watched him up until the moment the doors were slammed shut. Then Fenris was left to the ministrations of the mage and to his own thoughts, which swirled around his brain over and over, confusing and painful and filled with Hawke’s face.

\--

Though they put up a fight, Hawke sent his friends home with a promise to let them know as soon as he heard anything. In the end it was only him and Donnic sitting in the chairs at Kirkwall City Hospital’s Emergency Room. Donnic had procured two cups of shitty coffee for them, but then immediately sat his down on the faded tile and buried his head in his hands. Hawke held his just for the warmth it brought to his hands. He wasn’t sure any measure of caffeine could fix the tiredness in his body.

“I told her she should have stayed back, and let us handle the raid.” Donnic mumbled into his palms, catching Hawke’s attention. The man looked as exhausted as Hawke felt. His uniform was rumpled and smeared with blood, his hair greasy.

“You and I both know you could have said it all day and it never would have stopped Aveline from doing exactly what she wanted to do.” Hawke said gently. Donnic looked over at him. After a moment, he smiled and let out a soft huff of laughter.

“You’re right, of course. Maker forbid anybody suggest she works herself too hard.” he agreed. “But it all worked out in the end, I suppose. With Caelius dead and the charges you brought against him recorded, Tevinter won’t dare start anything with the Free Marches.”

“And nobody will ask any more questions about Hadriana Revus’s death either, lest they find out she was involved too.” Hawke finished. “Not a bad day’s work, was it?”

They lapsed back into silence for a moment, but it was lighter this time. A lot lighter than it had been between him and Donnic since their awkward night at the Hanged Man, when Aveline had gotten cold feet and never shown. Which reminded him…

“Aveline sent you that engraving, by the way.” Hawke said conversationally, inspecting his cup of coffee.

The look on Donnic’s face was comical enough to belong in a movie. Had Hawke ever seen someone’s eyes get that wide? No, he didn’t think so.

“The ugly copper one with the marigolds on it?” Donnic asked weakly. Hawke nodded.

“Her idea of a courting gift.Turns out she gets all tongue-tied when she’s interested in a man. Cute, don’t you think?”

Donnic looked rather like somebody had hit him in the face with a fish. “Courting… are you saying…?”

 _Really._ How could two equally clear-headed, sensible people turn into such morons when it came to dating? The world would never know.

“I’m _saying,”_ Hawke said pointedly, “that Kirkwall Guard Captain Aveline Vallen would very much like to strip you naked and put her mouth on your -”

The shade of red that Donnic turned was surely a new addition to the colour spectrum. “ _Alright,_ alright, I get it!” he cut in. “But she - I mean - should I…?”

The nurse that Hawke had checked in with came around the corner, caught sight of him, and began moving toward them determinedly. That could only mean one thing.

“What you should do,” Hawke said as he stood, clapping Donnic on the shoulder, “Is ask her on a date. And the requisite warning to you - if you hurt her in any way, you’re aware what exactly I’m capable of. Keep that in mind.”

It was heartening to see that Donnic was less put out by Hawke’s threat than he was by the mere idea of Aveline fancying him. A rather good sign, he thought.

But as they moved down the hallway, Hawke found all thoughts of Aveline and Donnic driven from his mind. It had been over four hours since he’d left the bar in Darktown, and he’d yet to figure out what to say, how to say it, or even whether he should bother saying anything at all.

The room the nurse led him to was a sterile white, enough to be nearly blinding. The television was on in the corner, switched to the news and on mute. Only one bed occupied the room.

Fenris was sitting up against the raised mattress, wearing a mint-green hospital gown and looking worse for the wear. There were large circles under his eyes and his hair hung limp and dirty. The bandage was quite bright against his brown skin. His gaze, when he fixed it on Hawke, was unreadable.

Fenris was the first to speak.

“The Champion of Kirkwall, here to grace my presence.” he said, his tone cool. Hawke snorted and pulled the chair in the corner of the room closer to the bed so he could sit. It was a more casual gesture than he felt like making, and certainly one that assumed he wouldn’t be unceremoniously ousted from the room in the next five minutes, but Hawke was good at faking it until he made it.

“Should I have gone around shouting it from the rooftops instead? _Here I am, criminal underworld, look upon my face and cower in fear!”_ he mimicked. The tone was rather more peevish than he intended it, but… well. He wasn’t in the wrong here, was he?

Hawke expected a sharp retort, but instead, Fenris looked suitably chastised and fell silent. Looking down at his lap, one slender hand came up to fiddle with his bandage awkwardly. The sight chased all feelings of self-righteousness out of Hawke’s mind.

“Sorry. If it helps, it’s a pretty well-kept secret. Not even my whole family knows. So consider yourself part of a privileged group, now.”

“I’m honoured.” Fenris said dryly. “You were...not in the wrong for not telling me. I just… a lot has changed in the last 24 hours, and I am not quite myself.” He paused. “My sister… what will happen to her?”

Hawke thought about it for a moment. “I doubt she’ll be tried. What she did was horrible, but it’s clear she wasn’t doing it all of her own volition. Probably, she’ll be sent back to Tevinter. Unless… if you want her here…?”

“No.” Fenris said quickly, cutting him off. His face was grim. “The more miles between her and I, the better. If I’d had the chance… I don’t know what I would have done.”

Hawke leaned forward unthinkingly and set his hand on Fenris’s. He didn’t consider the implication until Fenris looked down at it, frowned, and gently pulled his hand away.

“I...apologize, for what I said before I left. It was colder than I meant to be.” Fenris said, still looking down at his hand. “But the spirit of it was correct. You have been more than kind to me, and I owe you a debt. But this… I cannot do this.”

In a way, it was even more disappointing than the first time he’d said it, because this time Hawke knew it was true. Fenris’s first rejection had happened mere hours before he’d attempted to disappear out of Hawke’s life, and it was clear the words were meant to drive him away more than explain Fenris’s true feelings. This statement had been given thought. But the look on Fenris’s face as he turned his hand over and stared at his palm was thoughtful, almost...wistful.

A memory of a dream flickered to Hawke’s mind. A demon in the shape of Fenris, lying half-awake in his bed. _Fenris would never leave you. He would never be taken from you._

“Fenris.” Hawke said. The man’s eyes slid away from his hand and fixed on Hawke, bright emerald green in the stark light of the hospital room. Hawke realized after a moment he’d totally lost his train of thought and was just staring. Mentally, he kicked himself and scrambled to regain himself.

“Fenris,” he started again. “I’m not asking for a relationship. I’m offering you a friendship. If you’re interested.”

Fenris merely cocked an eyebrow at him, but there was a glimmer of something uncertain in his eyes, so faint as to be nearly unnoticeable.

“I like you.” Hawke continued.  “I enjoy your company. And if you’re staying in Kirkwall, I could use your help, when you have the time. There’s always need of somebody with your skills with a gun. Varric runs me ragged, chasing after gangs and slavers and the like. ...what do you think?”

It was slow, but after a moment’s hesitance, Fenris’s lips quirked into a small smile. It was a soft thing, all muted at the edges, but it was certain, and it was real. And it told Hawke everything he needed to know.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to just be a semi-long fun oneshot, but then I couldn't commit to pushing Fenris and Hawke together that fast, so I may have committed myself to some more writing in this verse. Drop me a line if you liked it and you'd be interested to see more!


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